LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 


SANJ-A  CRUZ 


LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 

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FOR   TO-DAY 


POEMS 


BY 

FRANCES  MARGARET  MILNE 


or  THC 
UNIVERSITY 

OF 


SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  JAMES    H.    BARRY    COMPANY 

f(»\ 
1905 


Copyright  1904 

by 

FRANCES   MARGARET  MILNE 
All   rights   reserved 


m 

239? 


TO 

MY   DARLING   MOTHER, 

FROM   WHOSE   DEAR   LIPS 

I   FIRST   LEARNED  OF  LIBERTY  AND  TRUTH, 
THESE  PAGES  ARE  INSCRIBED, 


Contents. 

Page 

He    Kept    the    Faith g 

Have  We    Not    Found    Him n 

At    Heaven's    Gate 13 

Welcome   Home 16 

Own  Him  Thine 18 

The  Mariposa 21 

Farewell 24 

Welcome  to  Henry  George       26 

Doubting   Castle 30 

From    the    Battle 33 

Within  the   Veil 37 

Where  Thy  Footsteps  Led,  We  Follow    .     .  41 

At  Dartford 44 

Beyond 47 

Thy  Part 53 

What  Comfort 55 

The  Sowing 57 

"The  Turn  of  the  Tide" 60 

Disinherited 63 

The  Breaker  Boy 67 

"These    Little   Ones" 69 

The    Voice 73 

Looking  Backward 75 

While  It  Was  Morning 78 

The   Awakening 83 

The    Onset 85 

For  To-Day 87 

Lead  Us   Further 90 

To  J.  H.  B 93 

Freedom    Calls 94 


Page 

Tom  L.  Johnson 97 

The  Best  That  They  Can 98 

Guard  the  Trust 101 

"God    Bless    You" 104 

"Under  the  Wheel"       109 

The  Tramp in 

Earth  to   Earth 115 

Homestead 118 

"Home,    Sweet    Home" 121 

Tulare 126 

Her    Fate    To-Day 128 

"As  Ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad" 131 

What  Answer 137 

The  Bugle  is  Blown       143 

The  Sunburst 146 

For   Humanity 148 

The    New    Crusade 150 

The  Day  That  Yet  Shall  Be 153 

The  Promise  and  Hope  of  the  Red,  White 

and  Blue 155 

The  Passing  of  the  Village 161 

The  Drouth;  Southern  California     ....  164 

After  the  Rain 167 

Desecration 170 

Pro   Patria 173 

The  Commonwealth 179 

Beat   the    Long    Roll 182 

The   Portent       185 

"It  is  God's  Way"      . 188 

Upon    the    Fourth 190 

The    Boer       193 

Cuba  Libre 195 

The  Merrimac 197 

The    Philippines 199 

Bride  of  the  Ages 201 

The  Darkest  Hour 204 


Page 

"Freedom's  Ahead" 209 

"The  Land  of  By-and-By" 211 

Liberty's  Dream 215 

"Back  to  the  Land" 217 

Out  of  the  Mists       220 

The   Message 223 

Hearts  of  Hope 225 

Hearts  of  Sorrow      .    .    .    .  * 227 

The  Sun  of  Christmas  Morning 229 


There  was  a  man  sent  from  God,  whose  name 
was  Henry  George. 

— Rev.  Dr.  Edward  McGlynn. 


-TxSRA 
v  Of  THE 

{   UNIVERSITY  J 

OF 


HE  KEPT  THE  FAITH. 

[October  29,  1897.] 

Years  ago  Henry  George  wrote  to  me:  "When 
you  hear  that  I  am  dead,  if  it  can  be  said  of  me, 
4  he  has  kept  the  faith,  he  has  fought  the  fight/ 
then  write  me  a  requiem  song  of  gladness  and  of 
hope."  Oh,  I  never  thought  to  write  it,  then. 

TTAST  thou  a  requiem  strain, 

Glad,  free,  and  strong? 
Meet  for  the  glorious  life 

Sorrow  would  wrong? 
Tears  for  the  vanquished,   the  weak, 

Crushed  in  the  fray; 
This  is  a   Conqueror's  soul 

Passing  to-day. 

Joy!  that  the  race  has  been  run 

To  its  proud  goal! 
Ah,  how  serenely  his  rest 

Smiles  at  our  dole. 
Tears  for  a  people  bereft; 

Honor  and   love 
For  the  beloved  of  his  heart; 

This  we  may  prove. 


He  Kept   The  Faith. 

Here,  with  heads  bared  to  the  skies, 

Pledge  we  again 
Faith  to  the  leader  who  died 

For  the  manhood  of  men. 
So  shall  his  joy  be  fulfilled; 

So  shall  his  name 
Kindle  our  hearts  as  of  old — 

Vital   as   flame ! 

No!     Let  the  dirge  be  unsung — 

Anthems,  instead! 
Why,  when  his  guerdon  is  won, 

Mourn  we  him  dead? 
Lord!  for  Thy  Prophet  beloved, 

Render  we  praise! 
Father  in   Heaven!  Thy  will 

Hallow  our  days. 


10 


HAVE   WE   NOT   FOUND   HIM? 


We  want  thee.   Oh,  unfound 
And  sovran  teacher! 

— Mrs.  Browning. 


HAVE  we  not  found  him  whom  her  prophet 
soul 

Invoked  from  shadows  of  that  darkening  night, 
When  Freedom's  star  seemed  lost  amid  the  roll 
And  thunder-storm  of  Tyranny's  fell  might? 
Full-orbed,  and  true  to  her  inspired  hope, 

He  rose  upon  our  night  of  doubt  and  fear, 
And  all  the  mountain  peaks,  from  slope  to  slope, 
Rejoiced  in  rapture  that  the  dawn  was  here! 


Somewhere    in    earth's   domain,  her   faith   made 
sure — 

With  seer  prevision,  unrestrained  and  clear — 
He  lived,  in  God's  great  purpose  held  secure, 

Who  should  do  greatly  when  his  day  appear. 
Oh,  not  for  Italy  alone,  the  strain 

That  echoed  from  her  heavenly  harp,  was  sung ; 
HUMANITY'S  deep  joy,  and  deeper  pain, 

Spoke  to  her  spirit  in  the  self-same  tongue. 


ii 


Have  We  Not  Found  Him? 

I  think  she  watches  us  from  that  pure  sky, 

With    knowledge, — truer     than    our    mortal 

lore, — 
Of  those  low  valleys  where  our  path  must  lie, 

Of  those  far  heights  to  which  our  faith  must 

soar. 
And  evermore,  I  think,  her  spirit,  calm 

In  its  high  confidence,  for  blessing  prays 
On  him  whose  hand  has  grasped  this  oriflamme, 

And  holds  it  high,  to  fix  our  wavering  gaze. 


12 


AT  HEAVEN'S  GATE. 

But  it  was  the  larks  that  charmed  me  most. 
They  sang  in  the  sun  as  though  they  knew  I  was 
a  stranger,  and  were  bent  on  doing  their  best  to 
please  me.  First  one,  and  then  another,  springing 
from  the  ground  with  a  burst  of  melody  pouring 
from  their  throats,  they  rose  up,  and  up,  and  up, 
singing  as  they  went,  until  they  became  the  tiniest 
specks,  and  then  were  lost  to  sight.  Their  music 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  but  still  continuing, 
they  seemed  the  very  embodiment  and  type  of  in- 
nocent and  exuberant  enjoyment.  Then  falling 
and  singing,  they  came  down  like  spent  darts,  and 
so  close  to  the  ground  that  our  eyes  could  not  fol- 
low them,  skimmed  off  to  the  nests  where  their 
mates  were  keeping  house. — Henry  George's  Let- 
ters from  England,  1889. 

Yet  the  thought  still  mounts. 

— Progress  and  Poverty. 


TIP,  up,  in  airy  flight, 

^      Thro'  the  blue  ether  did  the  song  ascend, 
Linking  with  heaven's  height 

The   Land   that   welcomed   thee,  our   prophet 
friend. 


At  Heaven  s  Gate. 

Then  lost  when  seemed  the  notes 

In  a  far  distance  ear  might  never  reach, 

Back,  back  to  earth  it  floats, 

Still  uttering  to  us  its  celestial  speech. 


So  to  our  souls  thou  spake; 

(Would  that  we  ever  might  ascend  with  thee!) 
Then  back  to  earth  didst  take 

Thy  patient  way,  again  our  guide  to  be. 


From  the  green  earth  it  springs, 

The  heavenly  strain  that  bids  us  hope  anew; 
But  more  than  mortal  things 

Speak  to  our  spirits  in  its  music  true. 


Up,  up,  still  mounts  the  thought! 

Beyond  the  sky,  beyond  the  starry  sphere. 
Strong  and  divine,  it  caught 

The  secret  of  immortal  anthems  clear. 


On  earth,  Thy  will,  O  God ! 

As  it  is  done  in  heaven,  be  here  fulfilled ; 
The  path  Thy  chosen  trod 

Be  ours  to  tread,  with  earnestness  unchilled. 


At  Heavens  Gate. 

To  fill  with  joy  and  peace 

The  barren  lives  that  mock  Thy  gracious  care ; 
To  bid  oppression  cease, 

And  all  in  Thy  rich  bounty  own  a  share. 

Oh,  this  were  aim  sublime, 

Might  give  an  angel  joy  its  deed  to  share! 
But  not  alone  for  time 

Shall  the  rich  fruitage  of  its  harvest  bear. 

O  Soul  of  heavenly  strength! 

Still  call  us,  call  us,  laggards  tho'  we  be; 
So  may  we  hear  at  length 

The  fullness  of  the  message  given  to  thee. 

From  the  low  earth  it  springs, 

With  promise,  and  with  joy,  with  hope  elate! 
Then  swift  and  strong  it  wings 

Its  flight,  to  pause,  like  lark,  at  Heaven's  gate. 


WELCOME  HOME! 

[Henry  George's  return  from  England, 
July  28,  1889.] 

H,  tell  us  the  message  again! 

We  listened  with  straining  ear,, 
While  the  isles  of  the  sea  rejoiced 

That  marvelous  word  to  hear. 
Forever,  unto  his  own 

Shall  the  Prophet  unhonored  come? 
Ohj  answer!   Ye  chosen  hearts, 
And  lips  with  your  gladness  dumb. 

Earth's  snow-bound  slumber  is  past; 

The  summer  her  pledge  fulfills; 
The  brook  in  the  sunlight  laughs 

To  the  opulent  vales  and  hills; 
The  depths  of  the  forest  stir 

With  a  thousand  flashing  wings, 
And  the  grassy  coverts  hide 

A  myriad  happy  things. 


16 


Welcome  Home. 

And  our  souls  from  a  darker  trance 

Have  awakened,  the  light  to  see — 
The  affluent  joy  we  hold, 

The  glory  that  yet  shall  be. 
Oh,  Father  Almighty!    Thy  love 

Again  is  our  refuge  sure; 
Forgive  us  the  blinded  "eyes, 

And  the  trust  that  could  not  endure. 

By  the  chill  of  the  icy  past, 

By  the  faith  we  deemed  was  dead, 
By  the  stony  earth  we  trod, 

And  the  heaven  of  brass  o'erhead; 
By  the  hope  new-born  that  springs 

As  the  day-star's  beaming  ray; 
By  the  bitter,  silenced  curse, 

And  the  lips  that  learn  to  pray — 

We  would  own  our  debt  to  thee, 

Apostle  and  Prophet  dear! 
This  day  is  the  Scripture  fulfilled 

In  the  world's  expectant  ear. 
Oh,  true  to  thy  high  behest, 

From  the  wilderness  lead  us  on, 
Till — Moab  and  Jordan  passed — 

The  land  of  delight  is  won! 


OWN   HIM   THINE. 

[Read  by  James  H.  Barry,  editor  of  the  S.  F. 
"Star,"  at  the  Mass  Meeting  in  Metropolitan  Hall, 
San  Francisco,  on  the  occasion  of  Henry  George's 
visit  in  1890.] 

OHE  waits  beside  the  Golden  Gate 
^     Her  Prophet's  coming  from  afar: 
Why  hast  thou  welcome  loth  and  late, 

Who  watched  the  rising  of  his  star? 
Thine  eyes  were  held ;  't  was  not  for  thee, 

Dazzled  by  fevered  dreams  of  gold; 
But — passed  that  wild  delirium — see 

The  heavenly  vision  yet  unfold! 


Oh,  beautiful  upon  thy  hills 

Their  feet  who  publish  tidings  glad! 
Methinks,  from  slope  to  slope  there  thrills 

The  primal  joy  that  Eden  had. 
And  once  again  Earth  hears  the  word 

Our  heritage  and  charge  proclaim: 
To  dress  and  keep  thy  garden,  LORD, 

In  conscious  manhood,  free  from  shame. 


18 


Own  Him  Thine. 

O  sapphire  skies!  whose  boundless  arch 

Bids  still  aspire  the  spirit's  view! 
Beneath  thy  splendor  yet  shall  march 

The  race  that  will  the  world  renew! 
O  vine-clad  hill  and  rushing  stream! 

O  valley  laughing  to  the  sun! 
Thou  wilt  fulfill  the  poeYs  dream, 

In  that  new  era — just  begun. 


No  more  shall  Greed's  despoiling  hand 

The  luster  of  thy  beauty  mar ; 
No  more,  a  sordid  tyrant,  stand 

Earth's  bounty  from  her  sons  to  bar ; 
But  generous  Nature  wealth  bestow, 

And  toil,  in  interchange,  be  blessed; 
For  peace  shall  like  a  river  flow, 

When  Man  hath  brotherhood  confessed. 


A  welcome! — For  our  Prophet  comes! 

Denied,  rejected  by  us  long; 
Let  voices  from  ten  thousand  homes 

Uplift  the   glad  thanksgiving  song! 
He  comes! — to  bid  new  manhood  speak; 

To  hapless  childhood,  joy  restore; 
To  dry  the  tear  on  woman's  cheek, 

And  tell  the  hopeless,  hope  once  more! 


Own  Him  Thine. 

O  city  by  the  Golden  Gate! 

The  time  appointed  comes  to  thee; 
And  unborn  ages  on  thee  wait, 

To  join  the  march  of  destiny. 
Wilt  thou  not  hear — on  this,  thy  day — 

The  herald  of  a  truth  divine? 
O  haste !  repent  thee  of  delay ! 

Thy  Prophet  cometh — own  him  thine! 

February  4,  1890. 


Note. — The  Duke  of  Argyle,  in  his  attempted 
reply  to  "Progress  and  Poverty,"  named  Mr. 
George,  in  derision,  "The  Prophet  of  San  Fran- 
cisco," a  title  which  time  has  made  a  verity. 


20 


THE    MARIPOSA.* 

[February  8,  1890.] 

"1 1  TE  have  wreathed  them  in  song  and  in  story, 
*  ^       The  battle-scarred  decks  of  the  past ! 
But  around  thee  shall  linger  a  glory 

Undimmed  by  the  cannonade's  blast. 
For  the  white  dove  of  Peace  o'er  the  waters 

Was  brooding  that  heavenly  morn; 
And  the  souls  of  earth's  sons  and  earth's  daughters 

Rejoiced  in  a  promise  new-born. 


Oh,  omen  of  gladness  and  blessing! 

We  saw,  from  the  masthead  above, 
The  flag  that  the  breeze  was  caressing — 

The  Stars  and  the  Stripes  of  our  love! 
It  strained  at  its  cordage,  as  urging 

The  barque  to  no  longer  delay; 
Impatient  for  joy  of  the  surging 

Bright  billows  that  marshaled  her  way! 


*  The   steamer  in   which   Henry   George   sailed 
for  Australia. 


21 


The  Mariposa. 

Aye,  once  in  the  vanguard  of  nations, 

That  banner  had  floated  of  yore! 
Proclaiming — whatever  their  stations- — 

That  men  were  but  men,  and  no  more. 
And  eyes  had  looked  up  at  its  gleaming; 

And  straightened  the  backs  that  were  bowed, 
Could  it  lose  that  first  glow  of  its  beaming, 

And  darken  'neath  tyranny's  cloud! 


No,  never!     For  wert  thou  not  leading, 

Bright  banner,  earth's  vanguard  again? 
When,  fast  from  our  dim  sight  receding, 

We  watched  that  swift  keel  cleave  the  main. 
Still  true  to  thy  birthright,  and  scorning 

The  hand  that  would  basely  control, 
Thou  flung  to  the  wind  of  the  morning 

The  challenge  of  Liberty's  soul ! 


To  the  nations  afar  I  am  bearing 

The  herald  of  freedom  divine. 
Awaken!  ye  poor  and  despairing! 

And  tremble,  ye  great !  at  my  sign. 
Thus  signalled  that  pennon  outstreaming ; 

And  shone  the  pure  stars  of  its  sky  ; 
And  its  crimson,  as  sunrise'  glad  beaming, 

To  the  faith  of  our  hearts  made  reply. 


22 


The  Mariposa. 

Forgotten  in  song  and  in  story, 

The  battle-scarred  decks  of  the  past! 
When  earth  shall  have  beaten  her  gory 

Sword-blades  into  plough-shares  at  last. 
But  thy  fame,  Mariposa!  hath  shrining 

Unstained  by  such  glory  impure: 
In  the  heaven  of  hope  it  is  shining — 

As  love,  shalt  immortal  endure. 


FAREWELL.* 

T7AREWELL!  farewell!  The  good  ship  speeds 

Upon  her  shining  billowy  way. 
Farewell!  farewell!    The  land  recedes, 

Where  fond  and  loyal  hearts  must  stay. 
Oh,  richly  freighted,  forth  she  goes, 

With  treasure  from  the  golden  shore! 
And  every  wind  that  o'er  her  blows, 

Like  eager  herald  flies  before. 


Where  Honolulu's  tropic  isle 

Earth's  ghastliest  anguish  hides  from  view, 
That  message — like  an  angel's  smile — 

Would  whisper  of  God's  purpose  true. 
And  where  the  sister  islands  lift 

Volcanic  summits  to  the  sky, 
With  tidings  of  the  heavenly  gift 

Still  doth  the  tireless  herald  fly. 


*  Note. — Henry  George  sailed  from  San  Fran- 
cisco for  Australia,  on  his  journey  around  the 
world,  February  8,  1890. 


Farewell. 

Then,  onward — o'er  the  trackless  foam 

Of  ocean's  mightiest  domain; 
Australia  beckons   till   he  come, 

Outstretching  hands  of  welcome  fain. 
Oh,  herald  wind!  blow  fresh  and  free, 

Round  headland  bold  and  peopled  slope, 
And  breathe:     He  sails  the  Southern  sea — 

Apostle  of  a  world-wide  hope! 


Oh,  herald  wind!  since  shone  the  light 

On  captive  Judah's  hills  of  old, 
And  strains  celestial,  thro'  the  night, 

Earth's  coming  joy  and  peace  foretold; 
Thou  hast  not  borne  such  message  glad, 

As  on  this  wondrous  day  is  thine: 
Deliverance  to  the  prisoner  sad, 

And  light  to  those  who  grope  and  pine! 


Oh,  purpose  of  the  ages  vast! 

That — blinded — we  were  slow  to  see; 
Oh,  bitter  thrall  that  ends  at  last! 

Oh,  glorious  era  yet  to  be! 
Emerging  from  the  shadow  dim, 

Our  dazzled  eyes  behold  the  ray; 
Our  souls  would  own  their  debt  to  him — 

God's  Prophet!  who  hath  shown  the  way! 


WELCOME  TO  HENRY  GEORGE. 

On  his  return  from  his  journey  around  the  world. 

[Read  by  Hamlin  Garland  at  the  Mass  Meet- 
ing at  Cooper  Union,  New  York  Citv.  September 
i,  1890.] 

January  —  September,   1890. 


heart  to  heart,  the  tidings  sped; 
From  lip  to  lip,  the  message  rang. 
Oh,  never  Hope,  since  time  began, 

A  sweeter,  gladder  pean  sang! 
Earth  smiled  upon  her  Prophet's  way: 

The  skies  of  winter  softer  shone; 
And  balmy  were  the  ocean  gales 

That  gently  urged  his  fleet  barque  on. 


The  listening  air  hushed  silence  kept, 

Then  thrilled  with  answering  bugles  clear, 
While  o'er  the  swelling  Austral  seas 

We  heard  our  brothers'  welcoming  cheer! 
Oh,  heart  to  heart,  we  felt  your  joy, 

Dear  brothers!  whom  we  may  not  see; 
And,  soul  to  soul,  with  you  we  pledge 

The  glorious  truth  that  maketh  free. 


26 


Welcome  To  Henry  George. 

Beneath  the  glow  of  Egypt's  skies, 

The  fellah  toils — a  hopeless  slave; 
And  fettered  earth  reward  withholds, 

That  once  with  lavish  hand  she  gave. 
Dread  empire  of  the  ages  gone! 

We  tremble  in  thy  shadowed  air; 
Death-shrouded  city,  sterile  plain, 

The  irrevocable  doom  declare. 


Gray  desert   reaches — silent,   vast! 

Thou,  to  the  spirit's  ear,  canst  tell 
Of  power  that  awe  nor  pity  knew; 

Of  pride  that  deep  as  Hades  fell. 
Seer  of  the  Elder  time!  who  rose 

To  lead  thy  captive  people  forth! 
We,  too,  have  heard  our  Prophet's  voice, 

And  message  of  a  grander  worth. 


Did  we  not  follow  where  he  passed, 

With  spirit  vision  undenied? 
Did  not  our  hearts  within  us  burn, 

Even  as  we  felt  him  by  our  sidfc 
Aye,  to  the  nations  wrapped  in  death, 

Now,  as  of  old,  the  light  hath  shone! 
And  stirred  with  vague  unrest  their  dark- 

To  blaze  with  noontide's  fire,  anon. 


27 


Welcome  To  Henry  George. 

Peter!   thy  dome   attesting  stands — 

The  glory  and  the  shame  of  faith! 
And  Memory  flits  from  shrine  to  shrine, 

A  pallid,  self-accusing  wraith. 
Italia — wake!  the  hour  is  here! 

A  greater  than  thy  poets  dreamed. 
Thy  land,  expectant,  waits  to  be 

From  ashes  of  the  grave  redeemed. 


Hast  thou  not  welcome,  sunny  France? 

The  immortal  past  invokes  thee  now! 
Imperishable  glory  gleams 

To  crown  thy  City's  jeweled  brow. 
Thy  history's  page  hath  record  bright, 

America  can  ne'er  forget; 
Her  Prophet  bears  thee  gift  divine — 

A  gift  to  cancel  all  the  debt! 


From  Scotland's  glen,  and  England's  mart 

And  Ireland's  green,  forsaken  vale, 
They  gather — trusted  hearts  and  true — 

To  bid  God-speed  his  home-bound  sail, 
Dear  mother  isle!  full  oft,  of  old, 

Thy  sons,  undaunted,  bled  for  thee; 
And   sons  as  loyal  name  thee   now — 

The  Islands  of  the  Blest,  to  be. 


28 


Welcome  To  Henry  George. 

O  country  nearest  to   his  heart — 

Proud   star   of   empire's  western   bound! 
Ah,  could  thy  glory  know  eclipse, 

Where  were  the  balm  to  heal  our  wound? 
Thy  beam  upon   the  nations   shone, 

And  wakened  Freedom  from  her  trance; 
Her  beacon  lighted  glows  to  mark 

The  pathway  of  thy  high  advance. 

A  thousand,   thousand  welcomes  home! 

Our  Prophet  friend!  from  journeyings  far, 
From  thy  imperial  city's  gates, 

To  San  Francisco's  harbor-bar, 
The  throbbing  heart-tides  swell  and  meet — 

A  tidal  wave  of  joy  and  love. 
Leader  of  souls!  to  thy  high  call, 

Not  all  unworthy  would  we  prove. 


DOUBTING  CASTLE. 

And  a  faith  which  was  dead  revives. 

— Progress  and  Poverty. 

T  1  TE  were  prisoners  in  it  once, 

*  *       But  its  walls  are  lying  low ; 
Turret  gray  and  dungeoned  keep, 

Nevermore  our  souls  shall  know. 
Where  its  frowning  shadow  fell, 

Hope's  bright  blossoms  spring  to-day ; 
Fresh  the  winds  of  heaven  blow, 

And  the  dancing  sunbeams  play. 


We  were  prisoners   in   it   once, 

Straining  eyes  thro'  prison  bars, 
If  we  haply  might  discern, 

Faint  and  far,  the  midnight  stars. 
Not  for  us  the  dawn's  delight, 

Nor  the  splendor  of  the  noon — 
We  had  dreamed  of  them,  alas! 

But  the  vision  faded  soon. 


Doubting  Castle. 

We  were  prisoners   in  it  once, 

And   our   fettered   hearts   were   numb, 
And   the  prayer   we  used   to   plead, 

In  our  silenced  lips  was  dumb. 
What  was   hope?     A   mocking   taunt 

To  the  spirit's  thirsty  need. 
What  was   faith?      Delusion's    trust 

In   a  dying,  empty  creed. 


We  were  prisoners  in  it  once, 

False  to  even  Love's  behest, 
Fain   to   stifle   her   response 

In   the  wounded,   bleeding  breast. 
Wherefore  heed  a  brother's  woe, 

When   the  hand  was  weak  to  save? 
For  his  anguish — for  our  own — 

Rest  was  found  but  in  the  grave. 


We  were  prisoners  in  it  once, 

Yet  the  shadows  as  they  fell, 
In  the  wavering  grey  and  dark 

Of  the  sunlight  seemed   to  tell. 
And  between  the  dungeon  bars 

Did  the  winds  celestial  steal — 
Like  a  secret  message  sent, 

We   divined   not,   but  could    feel. 


Doubting  Castle. 

We  were  prisoners  in  it  once: 

Oh,  the  day  when  GREATHEART  came! 
And  the  rusty  hinges  turned, 

And   the  skies  were  all   aflame! 
At  his  voice  the  fetters  fell; 

Body  maimed  and  stricken  soul 
Felt  again  the  breath  divine 

That  could  make  their  weakness  whole. 


We  were  prisoners  in  it  once! 

So  we  cried,  exultant,  all; 
As  the  tottering  fortress  shook, 

Rushing  to  its  mighty  fall. 
Spite  of  sorrow,   spite   of   wrong, 

Once  again  the  earth  we  trod, 
Heirs  of  Nature's  purpose  vast — 

Workers  in   the  plan   of   God! 


FROM   THE   BATTLE. 

[Oct.   29,   1897-] 

HTRUCE!     No  more  the  clarions  call 
A      To  the  battle's  stern  array, 
While  the  silence,  like  a  pall, 

Hushes  all  our  strife  to-day. 
He  hath  gained  Olympian  heights, 

Where  his  Prophet-soul  surveys 
Earth's   murk  shades   and   flickering  lights, 

With  a  clear,   immortal  gaze. 

Kept  the  faith  and  fought  the  fight! 

Bear  him  homeward  on  his  shield; 
He  was  sworn  Truth's  chosen  knight, 

Even  life  itself  to  yield! 
From  our  turmoil  to  this  peace! 

Hush  the  sob,  and  still  the  pain; 
Death  hath  given  him  sweet  surcease — 

Would   ye   ask   him   back   again? 

Caught  away  like  Prophet  old, 
God's  own  chariot  bore  him  far! 

Where  the  heavenly  hills  unfold, 
And  the  angel  cohorts  are. 


33 


From  the  Battle. 

Shining  rank  on  rank  they  throng, 
Welcoming  with   glad   acclaim: 

"Brother!     You  to  us  belong — 
Enter,  in  the  Master's  name." 

What   remains?     The  altar  burns 

Where  his  costliest  gift  was  laid. 
While  Earth  travaileth  yet,  and  mourns, 

Still  the  ransom  must  be  paid. 
Leader   of   our   souls!     To-day 

Witness   for   us,    from   the   skies; 
There  our  lives  we  gladly  lay, 

In  a  willing  sacrifice! 


34 


They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy; 
Nor  change   to  us,   although   they   change. 

— Tennyson. 


WITHIN  THE  VEIL. 

"Upon   this    I   awaked,  and   I   beheld,  and   my 
sleep  was  sweet  unto  me." 


did  the  weary  body  rest, 
From  sorrow  free; 
While  the  glad  soul  upon  its  quest 
Was  met  by  thee. 

For  in  that  slumber's  depth  profound 

I   journeyed    forth — 
Afar  from  mortal  sight  and  sound, 

Afar  from  earth. 

A  heavenly  city  did   I  sec, 

A  mansion  fair. 
(Ah,  did  the  Master  there,  for  me, 

A  place  prepare?) 

I  felt,  in  that  celestial  air, 

A  raptured  sense 
Of  prayer  and  praise,  I  knew  not  where — 

I  knew  not  whence. 

37    f  UNIVERSITY 


Within  The  Veil. 

As  if  the  soul  of  nature  owned 

Her  Maker's  care, 
And  Man  for  faithlessness  atoned 

In  worship    there. 


Methought,  near  one  bright  entrance  stayed 

My  wandering  feet; 
In  awe  fulfilled,  yet  unafraid — 

In  wonder  sweet. 


'Tis  home !  sweet  home !    The  dear  earth-phrase 

O'erflowed  my  heart; 
And  in  that  tide  of  prayer  and  praise 

My  soul  had  part. 


She  waited  me — my  loved — not  lost, 

Nor  changed  to  me; 
Though  changed  and  glorified  she  crossed 

That  threshold  free. 


My  hand  within  her  own  caressed, 

To   gently   guide 
My  steps,  as  when  a  child  I  pressed 

Close  to  her  side. 


Within  The  Veil. 

It  seemed  on  some  fond  errand  bent 

We  took  our  way, 
With  dear,  familiar,  known  intent 

We  need  not  sa^. 


When,  looking  backward,  I  discern, 

Still  open  wide, 
The  portal,  and  would  fain  return 

Neglect  to  chide. 


But  with  detaining,  gentle  hand 
She  checked  me.     "Dear!" 

She  said,  "  you  do  not  understand- 
No  doors  close  here!" 


"Oh,  mother!  what  a  happy  place 
This  place  must  be," 

I  cried,  rejoicing,  while  her  face 
Still  shone  on  me. 


So  we  passed  on  a  little  way, 

In   glad  content; 
There  was  no  need  of  speech  to  say, 

For  thought  was  blent. 


Within  The  Veil. 

When  suddenly  a  shadowing  cloud 

Around  me  fell; 
And   back  to  earth  my  spirit  bowed 

Returned   to  dwell. 


Oh,  doors  that  Love  will  never  close! 

Oh,  city  fair! 
Beyond  this  life  that  ebbs  and  flows, 

She  waits  me  there. 


40 


WHERE    THY    FOOTSTEPS    LED    WE 
FOLLOW. 

(William  T.  Croasdale,  died  August  9,  1891.) 

[Read  by  Henry  George  at  the  Reform  Club 
Memorial  Meeting,  New  York  City,  August  27, 
1891.] 

"\JOT  for  thee  the  requiem  strain, 

•*         Friend  beloved  and  comrade  truest ! 

Gazing  upward,  we  would  fain 

Watch  the  path  that  thou  pursuest. 
But  from  yearning  mortal  sight, 

Clouds  of  heaven,  do  ye  receive  him! 
Ah,  the  gateway,  opening  bright, 

Closes  dark  for  us  who  grieve  him. 

Fought  the  fight  and  kept  the  faith! 

Not  for  him  be  wild  lamenting. 
He,  unrecking  life  or  death, 

Gave  his  gifts  without  repenting. 
Shall  we  falter,  shall  we  fail — 

We  who  named  him  friend  and  brother? 
Still  his  memory  will  prevail. 

Kindling  light  Time  cannot  smother. 


Where  Thy  Footsteps  Led  We  Follow. 

When  did  Freedom's  roll-call  sound 

That  she  found  her  son  not  ready? 
Foremost  still  to  take  the  ground, 

Eye  alert  and  footstep  steady! 
"  Forward — March  !  "     The  bugles  rang ; 

Old  the  fight,  yet  just  beginning. 
Why  the  stern,  relentless  clang 

Of  the  "  Halt  !  "  that  stayed  his  winning? 


Why— oh,  why?     We  may  not  ask. 

Ours  to  tread  where  duty  beckons; 
Ours  the  faith,  the  hope,  the  task; 

God  alone  the  future  reckons. 
Press  we  where  our  hero  fell! 

Fell?    Nay!    Rose  to  heights  supernal! 
Yet  with  us  his  thought  must  dwell, 

Even  'mid  the  peace  eternal. 


Beating  heart  that,  full  and  warm, 

Pulsed  with  human  joy  and  sorrow — 
Soul  for  sunshine  and  for  storm — 

Not  for  thee  earth's  brief  to-morrow. 
Loosed  the  clasp  of  mortal  hand ; 

But  the  spirit,  what  can  sever? 
Life  nor  death  can  break  the  strand 

Love  and  truth  have  knit  forever. 


42 


Where  Thy  Footsteps  Led  We  Follow. 

Not  for  thee  the  requiem  strain, 

Tho'  our  lips  with  sorrow  quiver, 
And  the  tears  that  fall  like  rain 

Mingle  in  grief's  ceaseless  river. 
Friend  beloved  and  comrade  tried! 

Hearts  are  faint  and  eyes  are  hollow ; 
But,  whatever  fate  betide, 

Where  thy  footsteps  led  we  follow. 


43 


AT  DARTFORD  (PHOENIX  MILL). 

One  of  the  first  acts  of  Burroughs,  Wellcome 
&  Co.  on  taking  possession  was  to  plant  additional 
trees,  to  place  comfortable  benches  in  all  conve- 
nient places,  and  to  set  out,  under  the  charge  of  a 
skillful  gardener,  5,000  rose-bushes  and  flowering 
shrubs.  The  people  of  the  factory  will  have  some 
chance  to  enjoy  the  garden  thus  provided;  for 
Burroughs,  Wellcome  &  'Co.  have  of  their  own 
motion  introduced  the  eight-hour  system.  And 
while  paying  the  highest  current  wages,  they  set 
apart  a  percentage  of  profits,  which  are  divided 
between  all  employees  of  two  years'  standing  at 
the  close  of  each  year. — Henry  George's  Letter 
from  England,  Standard,  August  10,  1889.* 

A  S  thro'  the  heavy  clouded  sky 
*"*     Some  rift  will  show  the  blue, 
And  starry  gleam,  and  sunlight  high, 
Earth's  faith  and  hope  renew; 

So,  'mad  the  turmoil,  sin  and  shame, 

That  cloud  our  spirit's  view, 
Some  heavenly  glimpse  will  break  and  flame 

Immortal  glory  through. 

*Mr.  Burroughs,  of  the  firm  named,  died  in  1895. 
44 


At  Dartford  (Phoenix  Mill). 

"To  others  even  as  ye  would 
That  they  to  you  should  prove"; 

Not  all  a  dream  of  future  good, 
That  golden  rule  of  love. 


For  even  now,  and  even  here, 
We  catch  the  radiant  glow 

That  makes  of  earth  another  sphere 
Than  wrong  and  sorrow  know. 


Our  thought  o'erleaps  the  heaving  tide, 

And,  under  English  skies—- 
No more  a  dream  to  taunt  or  chide— 
We  see  the  vision  rise. 


Oh,  happy  Dartford !  scene  how  fair 
Of  brotherhood  and  peace! 

A  pledge  to  comfort  wan  despair, 
And  prisoned  hope  release. 


Not  there  do  little  children  moan, 
Nor  women  faint  with  dread; 

Not  there  does  age,  unseemly,  own 
The  daily  strife  for  bread. 


45 


At  Dartford  (Phoenix  Mill). 

But  labor's  bright  and  busy  day 
Has  tranquil  evening's  close; 

The  babbling  joy  of  childhood's  play — 
Home's  dear  and  sweet  repose. 

Come,  Shylock  of  the  west!  behold 
This  Phoenix  rise  to  shame 

The  hoarded  millions  of  thy  gold, 
That  mock  a  brother's  claim. 

A  purer  flame  than  fables  feign 
The  dross  of  self  consumes; 

And,  risen  from  ashes  of  its  pain, 
Life's  perfect  beauty  blooms. 

Oh,  more  than  ancient  dreams  of  good, 

In  mystic  type  foretold, 
The  glorious  day  of  brotherhood 

That  Time  shall  yet  unfold! 


46 


BEYOND. 

[In  memory  of  Miss  Kate  Kennedy.] 

A  RE  not  our  hearts  still  thrilling,  but  to  name 
*^  them— 

Our  comrades  gone  before? 
Do  not  their  vacant  places  mutely  claim  them 

For  welcome,  as  of  yore? 

Oh,  they  have  passed  beyond  our  mortal  seeing! 

But,  think  you,  love  can  change? 
Or  that  the  hope,  that  was  their  spirit's  being, 

Finds  not  a  higher  range? 

It  were  so  poor  a  space  for  joy  of  doing — 

Our  earth's  brief  shadowed  year! 
Oh,  great,  true  souls!  ye  sure  are  still  pursuing 

Love's  service,  even  as  here. 

Still,  still  w^ith  us  ye  share  the  high  endeavor 

With  purer,  steadier  aim; 
No  fitful  wind  of  time  can  quench  or  waver 

Your  faith's  undying  flame! 


47 


Beyond. 

We,  too,  are  in  eternity;  around  us 

The  same  great  ocean  flows; 
The  same  great  law  of  brotherhood  hath  bound 
us; 

Life  knows  not  any  close! 


We  may  not  tell  whence  comes  the  inspiration; 

Yet  sometimes,  faint  of  soul, 
We  feel  anew  the  heavenly  exaltation 

That  makes  the  spirit  whole. 


And  we  arise  as  though  a  comrade,  calling, 

Reproved  our  dull  delay; 
And,  all  unquestioning  what  fate  befalling, 

Urge  glad  our  forward  way.    ._*% 


For  us,  the  long  and  dusty  highway's  faring; 

For  them,  the  height  serene; 
But  oh,  they  share,  with  love's  divinest  caring, 

Our  pilgrimage  between. 

I  sometimes  think,  how  they  must  yearn — behold- 
ing 

All  that  we  long  to  know — 
To  give  to  us  the  glorious,  bright  unfolding, 

Kept  from  our  eyes  below. 

48 


Beyond. 

For  them,  for  us:  One  is  the  faith  and  patience; 

One  is  the  great  reward ; 

Or  here,  or  there — what  matter  where  our  sta- 
tions? 

We  answer  to  our  Lord. 


40 


"  I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 

For  those  who  know  me  true, 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 

And  awaits  my  spirit,  too. 
For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me, 
For  the  task  that  God  assigned  me, 
For  the  bright  hopes  left  behind  me, 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do." 


THY  PART. 

AUSE  not  to  think  how  short  the  day, 

Thy  strength  how  frail; 
Pause  not  to  count  the  long  delay, 
The  hopes  that  fail. 


Thy  times  are  in  the  hands  of  ONE 

Who  changeth  not; 
Thy  part,  to  do,  ere  set  of  sun, 

The  task  allot. 


What  thoj  the  shadow  o'er  thee  fall, 

While  still  afar 
The  goal  thou  seek'st:  above  thy  pall 

It  shines — a  star! 


Love  falters  not,  tho'  small  the  deed, 

And  weak  the  hand, 
And  deep  the  gulf  of  human  need, 

Her  faith  hath  spanned. 


53 


Thy  Part. 

Not  what  might  be,  but  what  is  thine, 

Behooveth  thee; 
Can'st  thou,  from  earth's  low  bound,  divine 

Eternity  ? 


Up!   Thank  thy  God  and  courage  take! 

Tho'  long  the  way, 
The  evening  and  the  morning  make 

His  perfect  day. 


High  guerdon  hast  thou:  bow  thy  head! 

For  thou  art  come 
To  those  pure  ranks  of  spirits  sped — 

They  bid  thee  home. 


Art  thou  not  one  with  present — past — 

And  time  to  be? 
Earth's  noblest  own  thee  comrade — cast 

Their  lot  with  thee. 


Then  faint  no  more,  whatever  be 

Thy  effort  frail; 
Faith,  hope,  and  love,  companion  thee-^ 

And  cannot  fail. 


54 


WHAT  COMFORT? 

A  H,  brave  leal  hearts,  that  fought  and  bled 
•^^     In  Life's  stern  battle  for  loved  and  loving, 
When  the  night  is  past  and  the  dawn  o'erhead 
Must  they  faint  in  the  dark  where  none  are 

moving  ? 

The  dark,  dark  past,  where  hunger  stalked, 
And  hand  in  hand  with  despair  life  walked. 


Oh,  what  shall  comfort  you,  mothers  sad, 
When  the  happy  children  look  in  your  faces, 

And  you  think  of  the  little  lass  and  lad 
Done  to  death  in  toil's  iron  traces? 

Fair,  oh,  fair,  are  the  skies  aglow; 

But  over  their  breasts  the  daisies  blow. 


And  what  shall  comfort  you,  lovers  true, 
Sundered  by  poverty's  cruel  chiding, 

When  you  look  on  the  homes  that,  glad  and  sure, 
Flourish  in  peace  and  love  abiding? 

Ah,  God !  for  the  bright  dreams  unfulfilled ! 

For  the  hopes  of  youth  in  your  bosom  chilled! 


55 


What  Comfort? 

Ah,  what  shall  comfort  you,  tender  wife, 
For  the  shadowed  years  of  your  fate's  imposing, 

When  the  cordon  of  doom  round  one  dear  life 
Was  ever  sterner  and  sterner  closing? 

Cease,  cease,  salt  tears,  for  the  toil  is  past; 

The  peace  eternal  is  his  at  last. 


Ah,  still  be  glad,  though  your  sun  has  set 

When  the  morn  has  risen  upon  your  neighbor; 

The  clouded  mount  of  your  sorrow  yet 

Shall  shine  transfigured,  a  Mount  of  Tabor: 

And  your  spirit's  anthem  shall  chord  and  thrill 

With  "peace  on  earth,  and  to  men  good  will." 


For  blessed  of  all  the  spirits  that  yearn 
With  the  passion  of  heaven  over  earth's  sorrow 

Are  the  souls  who  earth's  saddest  lessons  learn; 
And  the  bliss  eternal  new  joy  shall  borrow 

From  that  earth  redeemed,  where  their  mortal 
span 

Wrought  its  part  in  the  Infinite  Plan. 


THE  SOWING. 

T  WITHHOLD  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing, 

*  *       If  morning,  or  evening,  be  thine ; 
Thou  knowest  not  what  the  outgoing, 

When  richly  the  harvest  shall  shine. 
There  is  joy  in  the  deed  for  the  doer, 

That  only  the  spirit  may  know; 
And  faith  hath  a  recompense  truer 

Than  guerdon  of  earth  can  bestow. 

Withhold  not  thy  hand   from  the  sowing 

Tho'  hard  and  ungrateful  the  soil; 
In  a  cleft  of  the  rock  may  be  growing, 

Unseen,  the  fair  tree  of  thy  toil; 
And  the  seed  that  the  wind,  in  deriding, 

From  thy  hand  ere  its  planting  hath  torn, 
In  a  far  sunny  vale  may  be  biding, 

To  burgeon  in  beauty  some  morn. 


Withhold  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing, 
Tho'  poverty's  captive  thou  be; 

And  fainter,  and  fainter  is  glowing 
The  rainbow  of  promise  to  thee. 


57 


The  Sowing. 

By  thy  fellowship  dread  in  their  anguish, 
Hast  thou  not  a  message  to  tell 

To  thy  brethren  in  prison  who  languish, 
That  Hope  may  again  with  them  dwell^ 

Withhold  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing, 

Tho'  Fortune  her  favored  doth  own; 
Thou — idle  and  careless — unknowing 

The  lives  for  thy  ease  that  atone; 
Oh,  canst  thou  be  dead  to  their  sorrow? 

Bestow  not  thy  pity's  poor  dole! 
Nor  think,  from  such  largess,  to  borrow 

Nepenth^,  to  quiet  the  soul. 

Withhold  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing; 

'Tis  Truth  shall  inspire  the  tongue, 
Tho'  toil's  cruel  rivets  are  showing 

Where  fetters  of  ignorance  clung. 
Still,  still,  do  the  lips  of  the  lowly, 

O  Justice!  exalt  thy  pure  name! 
Tho'  they  stammer  as  babes,  they  thy  holy 

And  perfected  praise  shall  proclaim. 

Withhold  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing, 
Tho'  the  lore  of  the  ages  be  thine; 

Let  the  Past  be  a  beacon  but  showing 
Where  upward  the  path  should  incline.. 


The  Sowing. 

Awake  from  thy  calm  and  seclusion! 

Divine  is  the  work  thou  may'st  share — 
To  clear  from  the  mists  of  delusion, 

Forever,  Thought's  ambient  air. 


Withhold  not  thy  hand  from  the  sowing! 

When  darkens  earth's  sun  to  thine  eyes, 
And,  past  all  mortality's  knowing, 

The  veil  of  the  future  shall  rise, 
What  welcome  shall  angels  be  singing? 

Oh,  think!  it  is  thine,  if  thou  would! 
That  anthem  for  Heaven's  high  ringing: 

"For  his  brethren  he  did  what  he  could." 


59 


"  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE." 

TTEARTS  of  Hope!  did  courage  fail 

•••  •*•         For  a  day? 

Did  we  feel  the  night  was  dark — 

Long  the  way? 
Though  the  faith  that  in  us  lived — 

Naught  could  slay. 


"Sometime — somewhere!"  aye,  we  knew; 

But  afar, 
Dim  and  red  in  clouded  space, 

Shone  our  star; 
All  the  silver  Song  of  Peace — 

Drowned  in  war. 


Cloudy  vapor;  thunder's  crash; 

Lightning's  sword; 
Stormy  wind; — fulfilling  still 

All  His  word! 
Lo!  the  radiance  of  the  dawn 

Is  outpoured. 


60 


The  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses  deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath. 

— Mrs  Browning. 


DISINHERITED. 

'"P  HE  poor  little  life,  just  beginning, 

•••       Was  gasping  and  dying  that  day. 
There  was  clamor  of  sorrow  and  sinning, 

In  the  squalid  abode  where  it  lay. 
And  the  mother  bent  over  her  baby, 

And  kissed  the  wan  forehead  and  hair, 
With  anguish  as  deep  as  yours  may  be, 

Tho'  her  lips  had  forgotten  your  prayer. 


'Twas  a  morning  beloved  of  Summer; 

The  meadows  were  fragrant  and  greet. 
The  rose  had  a  blush  for  each  comer, 

And  thick  was  the  trees'  leafy  screen; 
But  foul  was  the  alley  and  narrow, 

And  back  from  the  prisoning  wall, 
The  sun  shot  his  fiery  arrow 

On  foreheads  defenseless  to  fall. 


63 


Disinherited. 

Oh,  room  for  the  lamb  in  the  meadow, 

And  room  for  the  bird  on  the  tree! 
But  here,  in  stern  poverty's  shadow, 
No  room,  hapless  baby!  for  thee. 
Immortal  we  think  thee,  and  name  thee — 

The  child  of  our  Father  above; 
But  where  is  the  justice  would  claim  thee 
A  share  in  the  gifts  of  His  love? 


It  is  idle  as  folly,  your  weeping, 

Poor  mother!  those  heart-heavy  tears. 
Why,  who  would  not  covet  that  sleeping, 

In  place  of  your  desolate  years? 
How  hopeless  they  stretch  in  the  distance — 

Forever  and  ever  the  same; 
Each  day  with  its  dull  hard  insistence 

Of  work  and  of  want  for  your  frame. 


"It  is  well  with  the  child,"  says  the  preacher, 

"The  lambs  in  His  bosom  are  hid." 
"It  is  well  with  the  child,"  says  the  teacher, 

"Great  Nature  the  sacrifice  bid. 
The  poor  and  the  weakly  must  perish — 

So,  only,  the  best  we  attain ; 
The  perfected  type  we  must  cherish: 

The  law  of  progression  is  plain." 


Disinherited. 

And  yet — yes,  the  struggle  is  over; 

The  small  shrunken  limbs  are  at  rest. 
It  were  well  their  mute  witness  to  cover — 

JTis  a  pitiful  sight,  at  the  best. 
And,  somehow,  the  word  of  the  preacher 

Sounds  empty  and  vain  as  we  gaze; 
And  the  code  philosophic  of  teacher 

May  be  science — but  ends  in  a  maze. 


For,  look!  they  were  perfect,  those  wasted 

Small  limbs,  of  life's  effort  denied;  » 

Those  lips,  of  life's  goblet  untasted, 

So  ruthlessly  hurried  aside. 
What  share  in  the  world's  great  endeavor 

Those  tiny  weak  hands  might  have  wrought ! 
What  force  in  that  brain  might  forevel 

Have  lived  in  the  realm  of  thought! 


O  father!    O  mother!    rejoicing 

In  childhood's  fair  promise  to-day, 
Can  you  hear  in  your  spirit  a  voicing 

For  creed  so  inhuman,  I  pray? 
Had  priest  or  philosopher  found  you 

An  answer  to  quiet  the  heart, 
If  life  in  such  fetters  had  bound  you, 

And  mocked  with  its  fullness  your  part? 


Disinherited. 

Why,  look  at  your  baby — the  treasure! 

The  rose-tinted,  dimpled  delight! 
Could  an  anchorite's  soul  deny  pleasure, 

Nor  thrill  at  the  beautiful  sight? 
No  room  in  the  world's  spacious  garden 

For  flower  so  perfect  to  bloom  jj 
O  Heaven!    The  blasphemy  pardon, 

That  finds  for  thy  child  but  a  tomb! 


OUR  FATHER!   Oh,  well  may  we  falter 

To  name  thee,  and  pray  to  thee  so; 
Who  turn  from  thy  shrine  and  thy  altar, 

Profaning  thy  image  below; 
To  thy  children  thy  bounty  denying, 

While  heaping  the  store  of  our  greed, 
And,  dead  to  their  wrong  and  their  sighing, 

Charge  Heaven  itself  with  our  deed! 


66 


THE  BREAKER  BOY. 

"If  your  imagination  is  vivid  and  will  not  recoil 
from  a  picture  of  wretched  and  tortured  boyhood, 
you  may  conjure  up  the  figure  of  a  breaker-boy  at 
an  anthracite  mine." 

'"pHOU    madest    upright,    this    fair   work    of 
Thine, 

Lord  of  our  spirit  and  our  mortal  clay! 
How  dare  we  worship  at  Thy  earthly  shrine 

And  burn  Thy  altar  lights?  How  dare  we  pray, 
Our  Father !  for  Thy  mercy  and  Thy  grace, 
Nor  fear  to  look  on  this  accusing  face? 


Why,  puny  work  of  ours,  does  one  despoil, 
What  swift,  what  angry  vengeance  do  we  take ! 

The  thong,  the  prison,  weary  endless  toil; 
Yes,  life  itself  did  we  the  forfeit  make! 

But  Thine — this  wonderful,  mysterious  frame! 

We  dare  distort,  and  own  nor  fear,  nor  shame. 


The  Breaker  Boy. 

The  eager  joy  of  boyhood  never  flowed 

In  ringing  shout  and  laughter  from  these  lips; 

These    dulled,    sad    eyes    with    rapture    never 

glowed — 
They  do  but  witness  to  the  mind's  eclipse. 

This  bowed  and  stunted  form,  this  travesty 

Of  age,  in  youth — ah,  God!  that  it  should  be. 


Oh,  Thou !  whose  love  the  child  of  Judah  knew — 
The  little  child,  set  in  our  midst  to  be 

Thy  symbol  of  the  life  that  must  renew 

The  founts  of  being,  and  the  soul  make  free, — 

How  dare  we  still  that  stainless  record  read, 

Nor  blanch  before  this  ruthless  crime  of  greed! 


Ah,  how  shall  we  endure  to  see  this  face 

Looming  upon  us,  through  the  phantom  years  \ 

What  proud  achievement  ever  can  erase 
This  memory  of  shame? — too  sad  for  tears. 

The  image  of  this  childhood  crucified 

Shall  still  our  pomp  and  circumstance  deride. 


68 


"THESE    LITTLE   ONES." 

"Whosoever  shall  offend  one  of  these  little  ones, 
it  is  better  for  him  that  a  millstone  were  hanged 
about  his  neck,  and  he  were  cast  into  the  sea." 

"Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  lit- 
tle ones,  for  I  say  unto  you:  That  in  heaven  their 
angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father 
which  is  in  Heaven." — Christ. 

HP  HE  happy  little  children — 
•"•       The  flowers  of  love  and  home! 
In  fresher,  brighter  beauty, 

Earth  smiles  to  see  them  come. 
How  fair  their  beaming  faces! 

How  glad  their  voices  ring! 
Nor  heaven  hath  sweeter  rapture 

Than  the  joy  the  children  bring. 

The  hapless  little  children! 

Earth  shudders,  as  she  hears 
Their  sad,  unchild-like  footsteps, 

The  dropping  of  their  tears. 
For  pallid  are  their  faces, 

And  dull  their  voices  ring; 
^las,  alas,  for  sorrow! 

Despair  the  children  bring. 

69' 


"These  Little  Ones." 

The  happy  little  children! 

The  Paradise  that  gleams 
In  unforgotten  glory 

Upon  us  in  our  dreams, 
Is  theirs  in  full  possessing — 

No  vainly  visioned  show; 
The  heirship  of  existence 

We  bartered  long  ago. 


Oh,  hapless  little  children! — 

The  meadow  lark  may  sing, 
And  scent  of  bud  and  blossom 

The  perfumed  air  may  fling; 
The  bee  hath  leave  to  wander, 

The  butterfly  to  soar, 
But  life  for  you  is  bounded 

Within  the  factory  door. 


Oh,  happy  little  children! 

Ye  know  not  ye  are  blest, 
For  love  doth  guard  your  footsteps, 

And  love  doth  watch  your  rest; 
And  as  the  rose  and  lily 

Rejoice  in  sun  and  dew — 
The  birthright  of  their  blooming — 

So  life  is  glad  to  you. 


70 


"These  Little  Ones" 

Oh,  hapless  little  children! 

Ye  know  not  ye  are  curst; 
The  shadow,  never  lifted, 

Your  infant  days  hath  nurst. 
And  as  some  plant  that  withers, 

Unconscious  of  its  blight, 
Ye  know  not,  in  your  darkness, 

That  earth  and  sky  are  bright. 


O  God !  Before  Thy  presence 

We  know  their  angels  stand 
In  terrible  accusing — 

Why  stays  Thy  judgment  hand? 
The  nations'  gold  is  eaten 

With  blood  of  childhood's  years; 
Their  rich  and  costly  raiment 

Is  stained  with  childhood's  tears. 


Shall  soul  of  man  not  answer? 

Nor  heart  of  woman  thrill? 
Earth's  holiest  crusade  summons 

Love's  purpose  to  fulfill. 
Ye  worship  at  the  manger, 

Yet  leave  the  babe  a  prey! 
And,  more  infidel  than  Paynim, 

Ye  seal  Hope's  tomb  to-day. 


"These  Little  Ones" 

Wake!  Wake!   Do  ye  not  hearken 

The  children's  helpless  cries? 
Wake!  Wake!  ere  Heaven's  lightning 

Shall  answer  from  the  skies. 
The  millstone  of  oppression 

Is  weighted  for  the  deep, 
And  the  red  sea  of  vengeance 

Moans  in.  its  troubled  sleep. 


Oh,  speed,  true  hearts!  the  morrow, 

When  never  dawn  shall  see 
The  baby  toiler  wakened 

The  weary  day  to  dree. 
When  glad  as  bird  and  flower, 

Sweet  childhood's  joy  shall  flow — 
The  promise  of  the  future, 

The  pledge  of  heaven  below. 


72 


T  N  the  wilderness  crieth  a  voice — 

•^     "Make  straight,  for  His  coming,  a  way!' 

Our  spirits  have  heard,  and  rejoice 

That  heavenly  call  to  obey. 
O  Lord  of  the  straying  and  lost! 

We  would  gather  the  sheep  to  Thy  fold, 
From  the  horrible  tempest  that  tossed 

Their  lives  in  its  fury  and  cold.. 


A  voice  in  the  wilderness  cries: 

Oh,  not  from  the  mountain  and  glen! 
For  heavy  with  curses  and  sighs 

Is  the  air  of  this  desert  of  men; 
And  crowded  with  sin  and  despair, 

Shut  out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
Is  the  terrible  wilderness  where 

Thy  little  ones  struggle  and  die! 


73 


The  Voice. 

In  the  wilderness  crieth — O  God! 

That  voice:   'Twas  a  garden  Thou  gave! 
But  we  have  made  barren  the  sod, 

And  stand  with  our  feet  on  a  grave. 
We  have  bartered  our  birthright  for  dross ; 

We  have  infidel  been  to  Thy  love; 
And  we  dare,  from  our  shame  and  our  loss, 

To  look  up  to  Thy  heaven  above! 


In  the  wilderness  crieth  a  voice — 

"Make  straight,  for  His  coming,  a  way!" 
Lo,  the  desolate  places  rejoice, 

And  break  into  singing  to-day. 
O  garden  beloved  of  the  Lord! 

Unshadowed  by  sorrow  or  sin! 
From  thy  gateway  shall  vanish  the  sword, 

When  thy  children  their  heritage  win. 


74 


LOOKING  BACKWARD. 


the  struggle  and  the  heat 
Of  life's  conflict,  where  we  meet 
Foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand; 
Look  I  backward,  many  a  mile, 
Where  the  skies  of  morning  smile, 
On  fair  childhood's  sunny  land. 


In  youth's  blest  republic  there, 
Happy  citizens  we  were — 

Owners  free  of  earth  and  sky; 
And  the  more  the  merrier  made 
Work  or  play,  in  sun  or  shade — 

Comrades  generous  rivalry. 


Oh,  the  grass  was  soft  and  green, 
And  the  steps  were  light,  I  ween, 

That  the  golden  daisies  pressed; 
And  no  birds  that  sang  and  flew 
In  the  radiant  depths  of  blue, 

Blither  hearts  than  ours  confessed, 


75 


Looking  Backward. 

What  was  wealth,  and  what  was  rank? 
Up  and  down  the  woodland  bank, 

'Twas  the  bravest  climber  won; 
And  the  barefoot  boy  was  king 
Who  the  ball  could  farthest  fling, 

Who  the  race  could  swiftest  run. 


Never  factory  bell  rang  out 
Clangor  rude,  to  still  the  shout 

Silver  clear  of  childhood's  joy; 
All  unnumbered  sped  the  hours — 
One  were  we  with  birds  and  flowers, 

In  sweet  nature's  glad  employ. 

Did  the  ripe  nuts  clustering  fall, 
It  was  joy  for  one  and  all 

(Innocent  of  manhood's  greed)  ; 
Were  the  berries  rich  and  red, 
Quick  the  gleeful  summons  sped — 

Calling  each  to  share  at  need. 

Spent  and  vanquished  from  the  fray, 
Look  I  backward  here  to-day 

O'er  the  miles  that  stretch  between ; 
And  my  spirit  thrills  anew 
With  a  heavenly  hope  and  true — 

Brighter  than  the  morning  sheen. 


76 


Looking  Backward. 

In  our  midst  (rebuking  mild 
Selfish  strife),  a  little  child, 

Doth  the  patient  Master  set: 
"If  ye  would  the  kingdom  see, 
Such  as  this  ye  still  must  be — 

Love  alone  is  conqueror  yet." 


And  the  silver  echoes  run 

Round  the  world,  as  round  the  sun 

Earth  doth  ceaseless  circuit  keep. 
Hark!  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
Soft  and  clear,  the  spirit  hears 

Thro'  the  starry  spaces  sweep. 


Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  Time, 
Shall  be  born  the  day  sublime — 

Making  earth  and  heaven  new! 
And,  at  one  with  Nature's  heart, 
Man  shall  find  the  better  part — 

Love  shall  prove  her  triumph  true. 


77 


WHILE  IT  WAS  MORNING. 

T  T  was  but  a  greeting,  a  clasp  of  the  hand — 

An  instant's  delaying  on  Time's  shifting  sand  ; 
But  never  can  memory  lose  the  delight 
Of  the  exquisite  vision  that  glanced  on  my  sight. 


Oh,  lovely  ideal  of  beauty  and  youth, 
Transfigured  by  purest  devotion  to  truth! 
'Twas  heavenly  luster  that  beamed  from  her  eyes, 
And  her  voice  had  the  music  we  dream  of  the 
skies. 


Aye,  genius  had  dowered  that  beautiful  head, 
And  love  had  smoothed  softly  the  path  for  her 

tread ; 

Life's  fairest  promise  unfolded  to  charm, 
While  girlhood's  glad  pulse  in  her  bosom  beat 

warm. 


While  It  Was  Morning. 

The  glow  of  the  dawning,  the  day's  dying  gleam, 
The    foam-beaten    rocks,    and    the    meadow-girt 

stream ; 

The  winds  and  the  waters,  the  hill  and  the  vale, 
Had  Nature's  high  warrant  to  tell  her  their  talc. 


But  I  thought,  on  the  canvas  translating  to  us 
The  far-hidden  meaning  Earth  spoke  to  her  thus, 
A  something  diviner  than  genius  had  made 
A  sweet,  sacred  message  of  color  and  shade. 


For  purest  and  deepest  that  spirit  might  know, 
The  fountain  that  nourished  her  soul's  overflow; 
With  the  prism  of  heaven  it  flashed  in  the  light, 
And  the  stars  of    the  midnight  within  it  shone 
bright ! 


O  LOVE!    Never  weary  of  life-giving  grace, 
That  lavishes  beauty  in  loneliest  place; 
Shall  He  to  His  children  their  birthright  deny? 
And  mock  with  His  bounty? — Her  faith  made 
reply. 


While  It  Was  Morning. 

The  wrong  of  the  ages  rose  dark  on  her  view, 
But  the  glory  of  sunrise  was  piercing  it  through; 
And  the  dawn  of  her  life,  like  a  rose  opening 

bright 
In  the  dew  of  the  morn,  glowed  to  welcome  the 

light. 


Oh,  beautiful  head  with  the  tresses  of  gold! 
God  love  thee,  and  keep  thee  for  blessing  untold, 
A  guerdon,  unwon  by  self-seeking,  shall  be 
Truth's  high  consecration  of  Art,  unto  thee. 


It  was  but  a  moment — a  moment  how  fleet! 
That  gave  to  my  vision  that  memory  sweet; 
But  it  lives,  a  rebuking  to  doubt  or  despair — 
Hope's  pure  inspiration,  undying  and  fair. 


80 


Room!  for  the  men  of  mind  make  way! 

Ye  robber  rulers,  pause  no  longer; 
Ye  cannot  stay  the  opening  day: 

The  world  rolls  on,  the  light  grows  stronger — 
The  people's  advent's  coming! 

— Gerald  Massey. 


THE  AWAKENING. 

(In  vision.) 

'  &.  ~ 

have  wakened  from  slumber  at  last — 
A       Their  heavy  and  dream-haunted  slumber! 
And  limbs,  that  the  torpor  held  fast, 
Are  bursting  the  shackles  that  cumber. 

"Vox  Populi,"  have  we  not  said? 

(Alas!  did  we  smile  in  the  saying?) 
"Vox  Dei!"   Now,  suddenly,  dread, 

Full-toned  (to  our  joy  or  dismaying!) 

From  ocean  to  ocean  it  rolls 

In  grand  diapason,  divinely 
Invoking,  rebuking,  the  souls 

That  cower  in  silence  supinely. 

"Triumph  of  Party!"  you  claim? 

Nay,  that  were  a  fatal  delusion. 
As  chaff  in  the  wind  of  the  flame, 

So,  swept  into  shame  and  confusion, 

83 


The  Awakening. 

Malice  and  self-seeking  strife 
Wither  before  the  up-leaping 

Fire  of  a  nation's  new  life — 

Vowed  to  the  trust  in  its  keeping. 

They  have  wakened  from  slumber  at  last- 
The  mighty  and  terrible  people! 

And  Liberty's  Bell  is  recast, 
To  ring  from  a  loftier  steeple. 


THE  ONSET. 

npvEFEAT!    Do  you  talk  of  defeat? 
*-J     With  the  clarions  echoing  clear! 
With  the  enemy's  line  in  retreat, 

And  the  day  of  the  Lord  drawing  near. 
To  their  fortress  we've  driven  the  foe — 

Their  fortress  of  folly  and  fraud; 
Let  them  rally  their  forces  and  show 

If  haply  they  fight  against  God. 


Defeat!    Do  you  talk  of  defeat? 

Why,  you  know  not  the  battle  we  wage ! 
The  pulse  of  its  valor  has  beat 

From  age  unto  answering  age. 
As  humanity's  hope  it  is  old, 

It  is  young  as  the  morning  that  thrills, 
With  life  and  with  joy  manifold, 

The  radiant  valleys  and  hills. 


Defeat!    Do  you  talk  of  defeat!!! 

When  law  was  dishonored,  and  gave 
Its  strength  to  the  cruel,  who  fleet 

Pursued  to  his  bondage  the  slave. 


The  Onset. 

Tho'  helpless  and  hopeless  he  fled, 
Did  the  hour  of  judgment  delay? 

Go,  count  me  the  names  of  our  dead 
In  the  battlefields  numbered  to-day. 


Defeat!    Do  you  talk  of  defeat? 

When  the  judgment  of  Pilate  was  set, 
And,  eager  for  vengeance  complete, 

The  priest  and  the  ruler  were  met; 
When  loud  rose  that  terrible  cry — 

"Upon  us,  and  our  children,  His  blood!" 
Did  they  truly  the  heavens  defy? 

Tho'  the  cross  upon  Calvary  stood. 


Defeat!    Do  you  talk  of  defeatl 

I  hear  but  the  thickening  fray; 
From  east  and  from  west  they  will  meet, 

Our  warriors  marching  to-day! 
From  north  and  from  south  they  will  come, 

God's  soldiers,  who  know  not  retreat; 
For  justice  and  honor  and  home. 

Defeat!    Do  you  dream  of  defeat? 


86 


FOR  TO-DAY. 

"What  a  glorious  thing  it  is  to  feel  right!    Then 
there  is  no  persecution  can  dismay  you." — J.  H.  B. 

FEAR?    Breathe  it  low,  in  the  ear  of  the  cow- 
ard 

Plotting,  in  secret,  his  country  to  shame! 
Whisper  it  not  to  the  soul  of  the  hero! — 
Glance  of  his  scorning  shall  scorch  thee  like 

flame! 

'Tis  a  brute  sound,  that  but  mutters  and  gib- 
bers,— 

Curdling  the  blood  in  the  slanderer's  vein; 
Blanching  the  cheek  of  the  ambushed  assassin, — 
Not  the  proud  speech  of  man's  full-staturcd 
brain ! 


Cowards!     Applauding  with  lip-ready  homage 
Names  unto  Liberty  sacred  and  dear! 

While,  at  the  blast  of  her  wakening  trumpet 
Traitorous  pulses  shrink  palsied  in  fear. 


For  To-day. 

Shame  on  the  hypocrite  worship  that  buildeth 
Shrines  to  the  fame  of  a  day  that  is  fled! 

Blind  to  the  glory  that  haloes  the  present, 
False  to  the  faith  that  is  heir  to  the  dead! 


"Follow  thou  me!"  how  Truth's  echoing  sum- 
mons 

Rings  thro'  the  ages,  and  bids  us  arouse! 
Let  the  dead  past  be  its  own  mausoleum; 

Temple  of  Freedom  is  no  charnel-house. 
Dearer  than  laurel  on  tomb,  or  on  statue, 

Freedom !  thou  boldest  the  warm  living  breath, 
Hand-clasp  of  brotherhood  —  cheering  thy  sol- 
dier— 

Not  the  vain  praise  in  the  dull  ear  of  death ! 


Praise?    It  is  blasphemy!    Ye  who  are  weaving 

Nets  for  the  feet  of  the  valorous  few, 
Liberty's  name  as  a  spell  ye  would  conjure 

All  the  great  Past  thus  to  basely  undo. 
Tho'  your  lips  laud,  on  her  festivals  glorious, 

Sons  that  were  chosen  her  best  and  her  first, 
'Tis  but  the  kiss  of  the  traitor  of  traitors, 

Foul  with  the  breath  of  his  memory  curst! 


For  To-day. 

Fear!    'Tis  the  hell  of  the  crafty  and  craven! 

Whisper  it  not  to  the  soul  of  the  brave. 
RIGHT  is  his  shield!  Can  ye  think  to  dismay  him? 

Steadfast  his  purpose,  tho*  tyrants  may  rave. 
When  the  free  winds  shall  have  hushed  at  thy 
mandate, 

When  the  bright  waters  thy  empire  know, 
Then,  may  Truth's  manhood  obeisance  acknowl- 
edge; 

Then,  the  free  spirit  its  birthright  forego! 


LEAD  US  FURTHER. 

"And  we  of  the  great  republic — to-day  we  are 
looking  toward  Australia;  to-day  we  are  taking^ 
counsel  of  your  experience;  to-day  we  are  follow- 
ing in  the  path  you  have  outlined.  Men  of  Austra- 
lia, lead  us  further!" — Henry  George,  in  Sydney,. 
N.  S.  W. 

TV/I"  EN  of  Australia,  lead  us  further ! 
^*  A      Shame  the  slow,  reluctant  pace 
Of  the  Great  Republic — halting 

In  the  rear-guard  of  the  race. 
She  whose  star  rose  clear  and  splendid — 

Dawn's  red  planet,  mounting  high! 
Dims  her  glory,  shrouds  her  vision, 

Lets  the  world's  great  march  go  by  I 


Oh,  of  old,  a  recreant  people, 
Traitor  to  their  sacred  trust, 

Blotted  from  the  scroll  of  nations, 
Bowed  their  honor  in  the  dust. 


90 


Lead  Us  Further. 

Wept  Jerusalem  the  golden, — 
City  of  her  sons  adored! 

Temple  of  Shekinah's  glory, 
Trampled  by  a  heathen  horde! 


Promised  land  we  too  inherit — 

Fairer  land  than  Israel  knew! 
Trust  as  sacred,  ours  for  guarding — 

God!  shall  we  the  forfeit  rue? 
Lo!  o'er  fane  and  mart  there  lowers 

Darker  storm  than  Judah  saw! 
And  the  cohorts  of  oppression 

Rome's  dread  legions  overawe. 


Can  it  be?    The  spirit  falters 

In  the  anguish  of  such  doubt; 
Is  it  gray  of  dawn  or  twilight 

That  the  sky  reveals  without?! 
Rise!  the  nations  wait  to  follow — 

If  they  may — Republic  Great! 
"First  is  last,  and  last  is  foremost" — 

Shall  such  augury  read  thy  fate? 


Lead  Us  Further. 

Men  of  Australia,  lead  us  further! 

Light  the  skies,  O  Southern  Cross! 
If  we  recreant  be  to  answer, 

God  forefend  such  shame  and  loss! 
Youngest  born  of  all  the  peoples, 

Joined  like  brothers  for  the  fray 
By  our  past,  and  by  thy  future, 

March  we  forward  to  the  day! 


To  J.  H.  B.* 

A  GAINST  the  frowning  front  of  wrong, 
**•    He  flung  the  ardor  of  his  soul! 
While  mute  beheld  the  craven  throng, 

Or  owned,  like  slaves,  the  base  control. 
But  bright  on  History's  honored  page 

Shall  shine  the  deed  they  spurn  to-day; 
And  men,  in  some  heroic  age, 

Acclaim:    He  blazoned  Freedom's  way  I 
Oct.,  1889. 

*Note. — James  H.  Barry,  editor  of  the  San 
Francisco  Star,  whose  heroic  opposition  to  the 
tyranny  of  the  courts  secured  for  California  the 
passage  of  the  bill  known  as  the  "Barry  Contempt 
Law."  The  immense  meeting  at  Metropolitan 
Hall,  San  Francisco,  to  which  allusion  is  made  in 
the  lines  entitled  "Freedom  Calls!"  was  an  evi- 
dence of  the  strength  of  the  public  sentiment 
which  he  had  succeeded  in  arousing  during  this 
contest  of  over  two  years,  and  which  his  imprison- 
ment for  "contempt"  in  having  criticised  the  un- 
just decisions  of  a  corrupt  judiciary,  and  the  ac- 
companying fine  of  five  hundred  dollars,  fanned  to 
a  flame  of  popular  indignation  which  ultimately 
compelled  the  Courts  to  reverse  their  own  decree, 
and  the  Legislature  to  pass  the  bill  named  which 
secures  to  the  Press  in  California  a  free  expres- 
sion of  opinion  as  to  judicial  action. 

93 


FREEDOM  CALLS! 

[The  mass  meeting  at  Metropolitan  Hall,  San 
Francisco,  Friday  evening,  September  19,  1891,  in 
defense  of  a  Free  Press  and  Free  Speech.] 


voice  of  many  waters  — 
Deep  and  dread! 
The  trump  of  resurrection 

To  the  dead! 
Hide  thy  bold  front,  Oppression! 

Freedom  calls; 

And  lo!  the  thronging  thousands 
Crowd  her  halls. 


What!  thought  ye  slave  and  coward 

Knew  their  chain? 
Look!  ye  have  forged  the  fetter 

All  in  vain! 
Still  flows  the  blood  that  reddened 

Bunker  Hill! 
And  still,  for  Right's  defending, 

Brave  hearts  thrill. 


94 


Freedom  Calls! 

Free  speech!  when  king  denied  it— 

What  the  cost'J 
The  rending  of  a  nation, 

Tempest-tossed ! 
Free  speech!  that  gem  once  ravished 

Freedom's  crown 
Were  worthless  for  the  guarding — 

Cast  it  down! 


Tribunal  of  the  people! 

Try  the  cause; 
The  shadow  of  the  future 

Round  us  draws. 
Rebuke,  with  stern  condemning, 

Power  that  dares 
To  filch  from  thee  thy  birthright 

Unawares. 


Up!  rally  to  the  standard, 

Ye  who  claim 
A  soul  that  yet  can  answer 

Manhood's  name! 
Once  more  the  clarions  echo 

For  the  fray; 
Let  not  the  ancient  valor 

Shame  to-day! 


95 


Freedom  Calls! 

Heroes  who  bore  thy  banner 

In  the  past — 
Sons  true  as  they,  oh,  Freedom! 

Still  thou  hast. 
If  thou  the  roll-call  summon 

Of  their  fame — 
Write  on  that  page  of  glory, 

BARRY'S  name! 


TOM  L.  JOHNSON. 

curse  of  gold  has  passed  thee  by, 
As  vapors  flee  the  sunlit  sky. 


The  generous  current  of  thy  veins 
That  vampire  passion  never  drains—- 
To leave  the  heart  a  shriveled  thing, 
And  break  the  spirit's  plumed  wing. 

For  thou  hast  seen  the  vision  high: 
The  curse  of  gold  has  passed  thee  by. 


97 


THE  BEST  THAT  THEY  CAN. 

To  you,  all  brave  soldiers  of  work  and  of  self- 
sacrifice  !  —  Souvestre. 


toil  at  the  forges, 
**•       They  weave  at  the  loom, 
Their  pick-axe  is  ringing 

Deep  down  in  the  gloom, 
Earth  yields  up  her  treasures 

For  life's  little  span, 
To  the  fellows  who*  re  doing 
The  best  that  they  can! 


Upon  the  broad  prairie 

The  furrow  they  turn; 
In  the  wilderness  forest 

The  clearing  they  burn; 
Of  industry's  army 

Still  leading  the  van — 
The  fellows  who're  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 

98 


The  Best  That  They  Can. 

Where  o'er  the  white  surges 

The  reeling  masts  swing, 
And  thro'  the  rent  rigging 

The  storm  furies  sing, 
With  courage  undaunted 

The  yard-arms  they  man — 
The  fellows  who' re  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 


The  dream  of  the  poet, 

The  thought  of  the  sage, 
The  strife  and  achievement 

That  heroes  engage: 
'Tis  they  who  preserve  us 

The  record  we  scan — 
The  fellows  who're  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 


When  the  just  are  forgotten, 

The  innocent  bleed, 
And  Fatherland's  honor 

Is  tarnished  by  greed; 
Not  they  the  faint-hearted 

Who  quail  before  man — • 
The  fellows  who' re  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 

99 


The  Best  That  They  Can. 

Oh,  theirs  are  the  bosoms 

That  thrill  in  reply, 
When  Liberty's  ensign 

Is  floated  on  high! 
They  march  at  her  bidding, 

Unheeding  of  ban — 
The  fellows  who' re  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 


A  pledge  to  our  comrades! 

Tho'  silent  their  name 
When  History  summons 

The  roll-call  of  Fame, 
In  our  hearts  we  enshrine  them 

With  brotherhood's  clan — 
The  fellows  who' re  doing 

The  best  that  they  can! 


100 


GUARD  THE  TRUST! 

[With  greetings  to  the  Chicago  Single  Tax  Club 
on  their  Second  Annual  Banquet  celebrating  the 
I49th  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son, April  13,  1892.1 

whose  hands  the  flag  uphold 

Of  our  hope, 
See  that  pure  and  bright  unfold 

To  heaven's  cope, 
All  its  silken  streaming  wide, — 
Palter  not  the  truth,  nor  hide. 


Let  the  dead  past  bury  deep 

All  its  dead; 
Not  one  shrouding  cerement  keep 

For  our  dread. 

He  whose  name  ye  honor  fain, 
Claims  for  living,  earth's  domain. 

101 


Guard  the  Trust! 

Little  children  call  to-night — 

Piteous  cries! 
"Women,  sobbing  out  of  sight," 

Bid  arise 

Manhood's  honor,  to  renew 
Sacred  pledge  of  heroes  true. 

Not  alone,  that  vast  and  great, — 

Continent-wide, — 
Should  uplift  the  pillared  State 

Of  our  pride, 

Was  the  high  endeavor  won 
Of  immortal  Jefferson. 

Hearken!    Thro'  the  century's  years, 

Strong  and  clear, 
Trumpet  blast  for  listening  ears, 

Do  we  hear; 

"Earth  is  usufruct  belongs 
To  the  living."     Perish  wrongs! 

Parchments,  yellow  as  the  gold 

They  would  claim, 
Let  them  molder,  fold  on  fold! 

Empty  name 

Is  the  title  written  broad — 
NATURE  hath  the  deed  outlawed! 

102 


Guard  the  Trust! 

Mothers,  with  the  shriveled  breast — 

Infants  pale; 
Men,  whose  maddened,  hopeless  quest 

Still  must  fail; 
Lift  your  heads!  for  from  the  sky 

Your  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

• 

Ye  whose  hands  the  flag  unfurl, 

Guard  the  trust! 
From  the  gust  of  passion's  whirl, 

From  the  dust 
Of  that  base  arena  where 
Men  their  higher  selves  forswear. 

They  who  struggle,  faint  and  blind; 

They  who  die 
Underneath  the  wheels  that  grind 

Ceaselessly ; 

Helpless  for  their  own  redress — 
Save,  O  brothers!  save  and  bless. 

He  the  firm  foundation  laid — 

Jefferson ! 
Ours  the  work  to  build  and  grade, 

Stone  on  stone, 
Temple  of  a  people  free — 
Happy  in  fraternity. 

103 


"GOD  BLESS  YOU!" 


"As  I  stood,  intently  listening  to  Dr.  McGlynn's 
flowing  and  glowing  eloquence,  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  couple  of  short,  deep  sighs — almost 
sobs — just  at  my  shoulder.  Partially  turning  I  saw 
the  face  of  a  woman,  past  middle  age,  holding 
firmly  by  the  hand  a  sad-faced  little  girl  of  about 
ten  years.  As  the  Doctor  pictured  the  opening  of 
natural  opportunities  to  labor,  the  cementing  of 
families  in  independent  homes,  the  end  of  specu- 
lation in  the  prime  necessary  of  life,  and  the  es- 
tablishment of  God's  justice  on  earth  even  as  it 
reigns  in  heaven,  tears  filled  her  eyes;  she  clasped 
her  hands  fervently  upon  her  breast  and  I  heard 
her  say:  'God  bless  you!  I  hope  you  may  suc- 
ceed.' "—Judge  Maguire's  Letter,  in  "Star"  of  Oc- 
tober 15*  1887. 

\\T  HY,  hope  had  been  dead  in  her  bosom, 
*  *       For  many  and  many  a  year ; 
Did  you  think  that  the  heavenly  blossom 

Was  nourished  by  dew  of  a  tear? 
But  now,  under  skies  heavy-clouded, 

She  stood  in  the  sad  autumn  rain, 
And  the  hope  that  stern  poverty  shrouded, 

Awoke  in  rejoicing  again. 


104 


God 


Oh,  the  path  might  be  dark  she  was  treading, 

The  end  of  her  struggle  be  near! 
But  the  sunlight  of  Heaven  was  shedding 

Its  glory  to  strengthen  and  cheer. 
And  shone  as  the  face  of  an  angel, 

The  face  that  she  looked  upon  then; 
As  those  lips  told  anew  the  evangel 

Of  "peace  and  good  will"  among  men. 


Then  it  was  not  her  Father's  decreeing, 

The  wrong  that  had  tortured  her  life, — 
That  had  warped  from  its  purpose  her  being, 

And  made  of  existence  a  strife! 
Then  motherhood  still  was  a  blessing, 

Then  wifehood  its  honor  might  claim, 
And  home  did  not  mock  in  possessing 

Its  heritage  only  in  name. 


"Our  Father!"    Methinks  the  petition 

Once  more  in  her  spirit  was  felt, 
As  when,  in  sweet  childhood's  submission, 

At  a  dear  mother's  knee  she  had  knelt 
"On  earth  as  in  Heaven,  O,  Father; 

Tho'  earth  should  be  over  for  me: 
I  have  seen  Thy  salvation — then  gather 

The  life  Thou  hast  given,  to  Thee." 


God  Bless  You/" 

O  eyes,  that  have  watched  for  the  morning! 

O  lips,  that  have  prophesied  dawn! 
When  mute  grows  the  taunt  and  the  scorning 

The  mists  and  the  shadows  all  gone; 
When  earth  unto  Heaven  replying, 

In  worship  shall  perfected  be, — 
"God  bless  you,"  from  lips  that  were  dying, 

Shall  still  whisper  blessings  to  thee. 


1 06 


And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn! 

— Robert  Burns. 


"UNDER   THE  "WHEEL." 

'"THE  wheel  of  Fate  hath  a  measureless  round — 
•*•      A  measureless  round,  and  it  turneth  slow 
And  few  on  the  topmost  curve  are  found 

Who  care  for  the  lives  crushed  out  below. 
But  silent  and  sure  it  circuit  keeps; 

And  still  the  shadows  beneath  it  steal ; 
For,  sooner  or  later,  all  it  sweeps 
Under  the  Wheel. 


There  are  some  in  the  mire  of  want  who  fell, 
As  the  great  wheel   slackened   their  straining 

hold; 

Yet  kept  their  souls,  as,  the  legends  tell, 
The  spotless  martyrs  kept  theirs  of  old. 
And  some  in  the  furnace  of  greed  are  lost, 
(Nor  ever  the  angel  beside  them  feel,) 
And  outer  the  darkness  where  some  are  tossed 
Under  the  Wheel. 


109 


"Under  the  Wheel." 

The  laughter  is  silenced  on  childhood's  lips, 
And  hollowed  the  cheek  of  beauty's  bloom; 

Still  on,  remorseless,  the  great  orb  slips — 
A  Juggernaut  car  of  implacable  doom ! 

Sweet  age  is  robbed  of  its  saintly  peace; 
(Oh,  saddest  woe  that  the  heart  can  feel!) 

To  pain  and  struggle  is  no  surcease, 
Under  the  Wheel. 


It  has  warped  high  purpose  of  noble  youth 
To  a  base  endeavor  for  place  and  gold ; 

It  has  slain  the  weak  who  sought  for  truth, 
With  a  craven  terror  that  none  hath  told. 

Hope's  heart  grew  faint,  and  faith's  eye  grew  dim, 
And  love  felt  the  chill  of  death  congeal; 

Hath  God  forgotten?  they  cried  to  Him — 
Under  the  Wheel. 


Oh,  terrible  wheel !  must  thou  still  go  round, 

While  suns  and  while  stars  their  orbits  keep? 
Hast  thou  place,  like  theirs,  in  the  fathomless 

bound 

Of  Nature's  mystery  dread  and  deep? 
Nay!    Man's  injustice,  not  God's  decree, 

Marked  thy  fell  pathway;  the  skies  reveal 
A  day  that  cometh,  when  none  shall  be 
Under  the  Wheel. 


no 


THE  TRAMP. 


Consider  this  terrible  phenomenon,  the  tramp, 
an  appearance  more  menacing  to  the  Republic  than 
that  of  hostile  armies  and  fleets  bent  on  destruc- 
tion.— Henry  Georgre. 


TJOME,  sweet  home!  from  thy  Eden  driven 
•*•  A     He  wanders  forth  on  the  dusty  way. 
Lost  as  a  spirit  unforgiven, 

Hopeless  and  aimless  his  footsteps  stray. 


Shines  the  field  with  the  harvest  yellow, 
Smiling  back  at  the  sky's  blue  cope; 

Fruits  on  the  orchard  boughs  hang  mellow, 
Low  the  cattle  from  slope  to  slope. 


Share  hath  he  none  in  Nature's  lavish 
Care  for  her  children  of  each  degree, 

Meanest  things  may  her  riches  ravish — 
Heir  of  all,  yet  an  outcast,  he. 


in 


The  Tramp. 

Out  from  the  ranks,  where  the  city's  glamour 
Dazzles  the  sense  like  a  wizard's  show; 

Out  from  the  ranks,  where  the  city's  squalor 
Flings  the  soul  to  the  depths  below. 


He  had  asked  but  the  chance  to  labor, 
Yielding  his  strength  for  another's  gain; 

But  for  him  and  his  toiling  neighbor 
Room  was  none  in  the  pitiless  strain. 


We  have  scaled  the  towers  of  heaven  ; 

Wrung  from  the  earth  her  secrets  deep ; 
Yet  is  our  deadly  sin  unshriven — 

Men  are  idle,  and  women  weep. 


What  doth  it  profit,  machinery's  wonder  ?- 
Matching  the  marvel  of  Eastern  tale! 

If  it  leave  to  our  brother  yonder 
His  only  portion,  hunger  pale? 


Bring  the  fetter !  We  yet  may  find  him 
Room  in  the  workers'  vast  array, 

And  in  the  chain-gang  ruthless  bind  him. 
"Ye  are  idle!"  the  masters  say: 


112 


The  Tramp. 

"Brawn  and  muscle  and  swift  thought  flying, 
Ye  are  but  tools  to  work  our  will ; 

Spent  and  broken,  and  useless  lying, 
Cast  them  aside — there  are  others  still. 


"See,  to  our  gates,  how  labor  thronging 
Hastens  to  bend  the  suppliant  knee! 

We,  the  lords!  unto  whose  belonging 
All  the  toilers  must  tribute  be. 


"Count  the  cities  our  wealth  has  builded; 

Mine  and  forest  their  treasures  yield. 
What  were  labor  without  our  gilded 

Scepter  that  opens  to  mart  and  field? 


"Is  it  our  fault,  if  men,  want-driven, 
Clamor  and  beat  at  the  iron  gates? 

Surplus  lives,  whom  inscrutable  Heaven 
Leaves  a  prey  unto  pitiless  fates. 


"Are  we  indeed  our  brother's  keeper  ? 

(Fares  he  forth  on  the  dusty  way!) 
Wealth  alone  is  the  harvest  reaper — 

Man  and  nature  its  rule  obey." 


The  Tramp. 

Aye!   But  a  word  of  old  was  spoken — 
Still  it  rings  in  the  dull  world's  thought; 

"Fool!  for  power  and  pride  unbroken, 
God  hath  thee  into  judgment  brought." 


Ceaseless,  slow,  on  the  highway  distant, 
Plod  those  weary  and  aimless  feet; 

But,  oh,  Mammon !  the  doom  insistent, 
Marks  the  hour  when  ye  two  shall  meet. 


Rear  the  temple  and  rear  the  palace, 
Pile  with  ofFrings  the  votive  shrine; 

Yet  shall  your  proud  lips  press  the  chalice. 
Full  to  the  brim,  of  wrath  divine. 


EARTH  TO   EARTH. 

'HPO  thy  bosom,  all-sheltering  Mother! 
Thy  son  from  his  bondage  returns; 
Toil's  pitiless  mandate  no  longer 

The  captive's  deliverance  spurns. 
Make  ready  the  couch  of  his  sleeping, 

For  silence  and  rest  he  doth  crave; 
He  shrinks  not,  tho'  others  may  falter, 

And  name  it,  with  white  lips,  the  grave* 


He  looks  not  before  nor  behind  him; 

The  past  is  but  his  to  forget; 
And,  why  should  the  fathomless  future 

His  life- worn  spirit  now  fret? 
If  oblivion  indeed  be  the  ending, 

What  matter? — there's  naught  to  forego; 
And  his  soul-depths  as  hopeless  hath  sounded,, 

O  priest!  as  thy  Hades  can  know. 


Earth  to  Earth. 

And  Heaven?    What!  dare  you  invoke  it? 

Insensate  to  brotherhood's  claim! 
What  plea  shall  be  yours  at  that  portal, 

If  God  be  the  Father  you  name? 
Tho'  the  sod  in  its  greenness  doth  gather 

No  drop  from  those  famished  veins  spilt, 
Do  you  think,  from  the  Vision  Eternal. 

To  cover  the  murderer's  guilt? 


How  often,  sweet  fields !  have  ye  wooed  him, 

In  Spring-time  and  Summer  agone; 
But  in  vain  was  your  daisied  enchantment — 

The  child  of  the  serf  must  toil  on. 
No  posies  those  fingers  may  gather; 

The  coal-breaker's  grime  is  their  share, 
And  the  gloom  of  the  mine,  and  its  vapors 

His  largesse  of  sunlight  and  air. 


Ambition  of  youth  and  of  manhood — 

Nay,  why  did  it  stir  in  his  breast? 
And  why  should  the  vision  torment  him, 

Of  Love  in  her  loveliness  blest? 
Thank  God,  it  is  over!  the  journey 

Unending — the  long,  hopeless  toil ; 
Not  here  can  man's  avarice  follow, 

Death's  infinite  peace  to  despoil. 


116 


Earth  to  Earth. 

Green,  green,  be  the  grasses  above  him, 

And  pure  the  free  breezes  that  blowl 
The  nature  he  knew  not  while  living, 

This  grace  on  his  dust  shall  bestow. 
Greed's  hand  of  the  sunshine  had  robbed  him, 

And  prisoned  his  feet  from  the  sod; 
But  at  last,  in  this  quietude  lying, 

He,  too,  claims  the  gifts  of  his  God. 


Receive  him,  O  Earth!  to  thy  bosom. 

Why  name  him  as  young  or  as  old? 
In  Misery's  calendar  noted, 

The  sum  of  his  days  hath  been  told. 
Thy  son,  of  thy  love  long  defrauded, 

Of  thy  comfort  and  pity  is  fain ; 
Oh,  shelter  him  gently,  and  cover 

The  scars  of  his  wrong  and  his  pain. 


1 17 


HOMESTEAD. 

"Behold,  the  hire  of  the  laborers  .  .  .  which 
is  of  you  kept  back  by  fraud,  crieth;  and  the  cries 
of  them  which  have  reaped  are  entered  into  the 
ears  of  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth." 


TJTAS  it  not  entered  His  ears!? — 

The  cry  of  the  worker  defrauded; 
Piercing  the  heavens  above 

The  worship  that  mocked  as  it  lauded 
Vainly  the  priest  may  intone, 

And  vainly  the  censer  be  swinging, 
While  from  the  blood-reddened  sod 

The  cry  of  our  brothers  is  ringing. 


"Vengeance  is  mine!  "    Aye,  we  heard ; 

But  put  from  our  souls  the  repaying. 
What  if  the  storm-cloud  had  flashed? 

'Twas  but  the  sheet-lightning  playing. 
Now  the  great  deeps,  broken  up, 

Echo  the  thunderous  pealing; 
And  the  forked  flame  thro'  the  gloom, 

Ruin  and  death  is  revealing. 


118 


Homestead. 

Think  you  the  nation  is  great 

That  reckons  its  gains  by  despoiling! 
And  casts  up  its  balance  of  trade 

In  the  tears  and  the  blood  of  the  toiling? 
Aye,  but  the  debit  is  there, 

And  the  page  shall  be  turned  for  our  sorrow, 
When  the  dreadful  accounting  is  called, 

In  the  crimsoning  dawn  of  to-morrow! 


Bow  thy  proud  head  in  the  dust, 

Thou  that  wast  light  of  the  nations! 
List  how  the  tottering  thrones 

Answer  with  loud  exultations: 
"Art  thou  become  like  to  us 

Who  marveled  and  feared  at  thy  splendor? 
Room  in  our  Hades  for  theel 

Homage  and  welcome  we  render." 


Homestead!  thy  terrible  name — 

Mocking  life's  holiest  passion — 
Yet  may  be  slogan  to  thrill 

Even  the  bosom  of  Fashion; 
Stilling  the  violin's  strain, 

Staying — in  ghastly  derision — 
Step  of  the  dancer,  and  feast, 

Palsied  at  sight  of  the  vision! 

up 


Homestead. 

Alas,  and  alas  for  us  all! 

For,  bound  in  the  cordon  of  being, 
We  march  to  a  fate  that  is  one; 

The  wronged  and  the  wronger  unseeing. 
Oh,  that  the  blind  might  behold! 

For  fast  speed  the  hours  and  faster ; 
And  the  gray  arch  of  the  skies 

Reddens  to  storm  and  disaster. 


120 


"HOME,  SWEET  HOME!" 

[It  were  enough  to  move  the  sardonic  mirth  of 
a  Dean  Swift,  to  read  the  insultingly  patronizing 
comments  of  the  California  Press  on  the  employ- 
ment of  women  and  children  in  the  various  indus- 
tries of  the  Golden  State — notably  the  vineyards. 
The  local  papers  of  Southern  California  in  partic- 
ular, dwell  with  delight  on  this  evidence  of  our 
"progress,"  and  speak  of  the  ladies  who  may  be 
seen,  with  their  children,  leaving  home  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  morning  for  the  pleasant  pastime 
of  a  ten^-hour  day's  work  in  the  vineyard  of  some 
rich  land-owner.  One  paper  named  with  special 
commendation  the  superintendent  of  a  certain 

vineyard — "the  gallant  Major  B ,  who  declares 

he  will  give  the  ladies  the  preference  in  employ- 
ment every  time;  and  who  has  found  in  the  em- 
ployment of  ladies  and  children  the  solution  of 
the  labor  question,  at  least  as  applied  to  vinicul- 
ture." As  there  are  "thoughts  that  do  often  lie 
too  deep  for  tears,"  so  are  there  wrongs  too  bitter 
for  jest,  however  sarcastic;  and  the  grim,  uncon- 
scious irony  of  such  language  surpasses  any  wit- 
ticism.] 

/CLOSED  is  the  door;  the  casement  closed  and 
~  darkened : 

Is  this  a  home,  where  shadows  flit  and  hide  ? 
Pulseless  the  air;  no  stir  of  household  voices, 
Telling  that  hope — joy — sorrow — here  abide. 


121 


"Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Nay!  this  poor  tenement  is  but  the  witness 
That  here  Home's  Spirit  once  essayed  to  dwell ; 

Thrust  rudely  forth  by  Greed's  relentless  forces, 
Still,  in  the  distance,  sighs  her  sad  farewell. 

In  the  wide  vineyards,  rich  with  purpling  vintage, 
The  strong  man  sees  his  wife  and  children  toil ; 

Rivals  with  him  for  labor's  meager  pittance — 
He  coveteth  in  vain  his  daily  moil. 

Strange  travesty  of  fate!  the  curse  primeval 
Is,  to  his  thought,  the  one  supremest  good; 

Even  that  bitter  heritage  denied  him, 
Earth  mocks  his  hunger  with  her  bounteous 
food. 

Haste!  haste!  the  east  is  crimson  with  the  dawn- 
ing; 

Delay  not  o'er  the  hurried  meal  you  spread. 
Fare  forth,  O  mother!  with  your  child  bread- 
winners— 
Fare  forth !  the  sun  will  soon  be  high  o'er  head. 

Fulfill  your  "tale  of  brick";  one  golden  moment 
Must  not  be  missed  from  those  linked  hours  of 
ten — 

So  priceless,  and  so  great,  the  need  of  labor; 
Yet  yonder,  on  the  road,  tramp  idle  men! 


122 


"Home,  Sweet  Home." 

Fear  not  our  nineteenth  century  will  displace  you, 
Or  fail  its  knightly  pledge  to  still  renew! 

Our  modern  Boaz  bids  you  gracious  welcome! 
Glean  in  his  fields  from  morn  till  evening  dew. 

Oh,  worn  fingers,  rough  with  toil  unseemly! 

Soft  was  your  pressure  once  on  fevered  brow; 
Oh,  weary  footsteps,  that  in  home's  sweet  tend- 
ance 

Moved  blithely  once,  how  drag  ye  hither,  now? 

Unbar  the  door;  the  evening  shadows  thicken; 

Gather  once  more  around  the  sordid  meal. 
Then,   to  your   couch — waste   not  one   precious 
hour 

Of  what  repose  your  laggard  limbs  may  feel. 

Poor    mother!    wronged    and    cheated    of    life's 

sweetness, 

Sleep!  and  forget  the  long  and  servile  day. 
Sleep,  little  toilers!  and  no  more  remember, 
In  childish  dreams,   the  work  that  robbed  of 
play. 

In  other  homes,  how  speed  the  evening  hours, 
With  laugh  and  jest  and  song,  on  winged  feet; 

Round  the  fair  mother,  gay  the  circle  gathers, 
And  renders  her  unconscious  homage  sweet. 


123 


"Home,  Sweet  Home" 

There  the  fond  father  counts  his  soul's  dear  trea- 
sures, 

And  vows  his  strength  anew  to  guard  their  life ; 
Their  earthly  Providence,  to  shield  and  cherish, 
From  the  rude  world,  sweet  babes  and  darling 
wife. 


Ah,  proud  prerogative  of  manhood's  claiming! 

How  art  thou  shorn  and  humbled  in  the  dust; 
When  woman's  tender  strength,  and  childhood's 
weakness, 

Press  to  fulfill  thy  violated  trust! 


Aye,  sleep  thou,  too — thou  wounded,  vanquished 

father! 

Forget  thy  battle  with  unequal  fate; 
Let  not  wild  dreams  of  vengeance  stir  thy  slum- 
ber, 

Tho'  in  thy  breast  wrong  thrill  the  pulse  of 
hate. 


Wide  are  the  fields  inviting  to  thy  labor, 
Richly  the  earth  would  yield  her  corn   and 
wine; 

Palsied  thy  arm,  and  impotent  thy  purpose, 
While  impious  power  usurps  a  place  Divine. 


124 


"Home,  Sweet  Home" 

But   now   "a   Fair-going   world,    the  world    is 

grown" ; 

The  Great  Republic  bids  the  nations  come — 
With  mien  imperious,  as  a  queen  might  sum- 
mon— 
To  enter  in,  and  feast  beneath  her  dome. 


From  sea  to  sea,  behold!  a  continent  gathers 
Its  garnered  wealth  to  fling  before  her  feet; 

And  prince  and  potentate  with  tribute  hasten, 
From  farthest  clime,  to  swell  her  triumph  meet. 


But  from  thy  darkened,  desecrated  portal, 
"Sweet    Home!"    you    mock   and    shame    her 
vaunted  pride; 

Where  Love  is  crucified,  where  Hope  is  slain, 
Oh,  how  shall  Honor,  or  shall  Peace,  abide? 


TULARE,  1880.* 


T    O,  the  smiling  fields  are  fair 
*•*    With  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Sunny  earth  and  sky  and  air 

Must  the  saddest  spirit  cheer. 
But  the  busy  hand  is  slack, 

Tho'  to  labor  it  were  fain, 
And  the  winding  roads  are  black 

With  the  mournful  funeral  train. 

Not  the  merciful  relief 

Of  the  gently  falling  tear, 
Not  the  tender  human  grief 

That  would  watch  beside  the  bier. 
Sorrow  here  hath  sterner  part; 

There  is  passion  in  the  eye, 
There  is  vengeance  in  the  heart, 

As  those  footsteps  marshal  by. 


*  Note. — These  lines  were  written  at  the  time  of 
the  Mussel  Slough  (Tulare  County)  tragedy — 
perhaps  the  darkest  page  in  the  monopoly-cursed 
history  of  California. 

126 


Tulare. 

Years  of  patience  and  of  hope, 

That  had  garnered  richly  there 
All  the  toil  of  manhood's  scope, 

All  the  love  of  woman's  share; 
That  had  made  the  desert  bloom 

Like  a  miracle  of  grace — 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 

All  the  backward  path  they  trace. 


Green  beside  their  solemn  way, 

Springs  the  richly  tinted  grain, 
But  the  eyes  that  look  to-day 

See  a  sullen,  crimson  stain. 
From  the  ground  it  cries  to  God, 

Tho'   the  murdered  lips  are  still, 
That  his  swift  descending  rod 

May  avenge  the  blood  they  spill. 


Aye,  it  calls  aloud  to  God, 

From  the  fields  their  labor  tilled, 
From  the  trampled  burial-sod, 

From  the  hearts  with  sorrow  filled : 
O  Lord!  Thy  judgment  waits; 

Let  it  still  the  right  restore, 
While  at  Death's  relentless  gates, 

There  Thy  justice  we  implore. 


HER  FATE  TO-DAY. 

A  plain  pine  box  in  a  small  ante-room  at  the 
Morgue  has  attracted  much  attention  during  the 
past  few  days.  The  body  was  that  of  a  medium- 
sized,  divinely  formed  young  girl  of  eighteen 
years,  who  was  known  as  Edith  M.  Cook.  It  was 
clad  in  a  linen  shroud;  and  the  rich,  soft,  wavy, 
brown  tresses  formed  the  setting  to  a  face  that  in 
death  was  one  of  surpassing  loveliness.  "That 
child,"  said  Keeper  White  yesterday,  "is  the  love- 
liest body  that  has  ever  been  brought  to  the 
Morgue;  I  could  not  bear  to  put  her  among  the 
common  herd,  so  I  placed  her  by  herself,"  which 
accounts  for  her  story  being:  published.  The  little 
orphan  secured  a  position  as  nursery  governess 
in  a  family  in  Philadelphia.  Her  beauty  led  to  her 
discharge,  after  a  refusal  to  listen  to  the  proposals 
of  the  master  of  the  household.  She  came  to  New 
York  and  became  a  waitress  in  a  Nassau  Street 
restaurant,  at  a  salary  of  $3  a  week  and  board. 
She  hired  a  small  room  up  town,  for  which  she 
paid  $2  a  week.  As  this,  with  her  car  fare,  con- 
sumed more  than  her  salary,  little  by  little  she 
was  forced  to  part  with  her  clothing.  One  cold 
day,  she  came  to  work  clad  in  a  thin  dress,  with 
no  sacque.  Pneumonia  set  in,  and  she  died  at  the 
hospital  Thursday.  The  body  was  removed  to  the 
Morgue. — New  York  Herald. 

128 


Her  Fate  To-day. 

airy  height  on  height  in  church  towers 
soaring, 

Chime  answers  chime, 
Where  the  great  organ's  solemn  anthem  telleth 

Of  love  sublime; 
Where,   hushed   in   reverent  priestly   intonation, 

Low  voices  pray; 
How  should  it  be  thy  shame,  O  Christian  city — 

Her  fate  to-day! 


Where  wealth  of  mine,  of  loom,  of  golden  har- 
vest, 

Within  thy  gates 
Is  richly  stored — all  labor's  varied  treasure 

Thy  call  awaits; 

Where  earth,  and  air,  and  sea,  are  largess  pour- 
ing 

For  outstretched  palm, 
How  should  it  be  to  this  fair  child  thou  givest 

One  boon — death's  calm? 


Where,  square  on  square,  thy  spacious  homes  out- 
rival 

A  regal  state; 
And  wealth  and  pleasure,  like  the  genii  olden, 

Attendant  wait; 


129 


Her  Fate  To-day. 

Where  the  soft  couch  invites  to  softer  sleeping; 

Where  feast  is  spread; 
How  should  there  be  this  tardy  shelter  only, 

For  dying  head? 


Look  on  that  form  of  Nature's  finest  molding — 

That  perfect  face! 

Where  woman's  loveliness  and  thought  are  blend- 
ing 

With  childhood's  grace; 
More  terrible  than  loudest  imprecation, 

Those  silenced  lips 
Witness  against  thee,   Christian  city! — telling 

Thy  pride's  eclipse. 


O  God!  requite  it  not — her  youth's  dread  an- 
guish ! 

The  hollow  show 

In  which  we  worship  Thee  with  pompous  seem- 
ing, 

Rebuke — lay  low! 
Awake,  O  soul  of  man !  'tis  Justice  calls  thee ! 

Wake !  ere  too  late ; 
For  even  now,  within  the  storm-cloud's  throbbing, 

The  lightnings  wait! 


130 


"AS  YE  WALK  AND  ARE  SAD." 

Story's  last  statue,  "A  Christ,"  is  an  original 
and  beautiful  conception.  The  dress  is  that  of  an 
Arab;  the  cetoneth,  or  undergarment,  rich  and  full, 
bound  round  the  waist  with  a  soft  sash;  and  the 
meil,  an  upper  one,  a  mantle,  which  was  the  seam- 
less garment  we  read  that  our  Lord  wore.  On  the 
head  is  the  kiftyeh  or  scarf,  bound  around  by  a  fil- 
let, which  forms  a  visor-like  framing  above  the 
brow;  the  ends  of  this  kiftyeh  fall  over  the  shoul- 
ders and  cover  the  long  hair  which  you  see  under 
the  shadow  of  its  folds;  this  is  the  napkin,  as  the 
English  translation  of  the  Bible  calls  it,  which 
was  taken  off,  folded  and  laid  beside  our  Lord  in 
the  grave.  This  costume  is  most  effective,  for  it 
has  the  rich,  deep  folds  of  the  Oriental  quadran- 
regular  mantle  and  is  probably  like  the  dress  our 
Saviour  wore. 

The  person  is  that  of  a  young  man,  tall,  thin, 
but  not  emaciated.  The  right  hand  is  extended, 
as  if  summoning  you  to  approach.  The  left  hand 
rests  gently  on  the  drapery  of  the  breast.  They 
are  long,  slender,  refined,  Oriental  hands,  modeled 
with  feeling  and  delicacy.  The  face  is  singularly 
tender  and  noble;  handsome,  with  fine  brow  and 
beautiful  features.  The  eyes  have  a  wonderful 
outlook — spiritual,  and  as  if  they  saw  far  beyond 
mortal  gaze.  The  expression  of  the  face  is  united 
to  that  of  the  outstretched,  pleading,  earnest  hand. 


"As  Ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad." 

The  words  "Come  unto  me  ye  who  are  weary  and 
heavy  laden,  and  ye  shall  find  rest,"  seem  to  be 
uttered  by  the  lips,  and  yet  the  intense  sadness  of 
the  face  is  as  if  he  had  little  hope  that  humanity 
would  listen  to  the  call. 

I  sat  some  time  the  other  afternoon  looking  at 
this  impressive  statue.  "Ave  Maria"  sounded  and 
the  late  afternoon  shadows  gathered  into  the  stu- 
dio. The  half-lights  gave  the  figure  of  the  young 
Messiah  a  striking  likeness  to  life.  I  spoke,  think- 
ing aloud:  "And  so  He  may  have  looked." 

"It  ought  to  look  like  Him,  for  I  have  seen 
him,"  said  the  sculptor  quietly. 

I  started  and  turned  to  know  if  I  had  heard  the 
words  or  had  dreamied  them. 

"Yes,"  repeated  Story  calmly;  "yes,  and  I  will 
tell  you  how  it  was.  It  happened  when  I  was 
young — about  twenty.  I  was  going  in  the  'hourly/ 
as  the  coach  was  called  that  ran  in  those  days 
every  hour  between  Boston  and  Cambridge,  for  it 
was  long  before  the  time  of  the  omnibus  and 
horse-car.  Of  course  I  mean  I  dreamed  I  was  in 
the  coach.  It  was,  as  all  dreams  are,  at  once 
strange  and  prosaic.  Soon  after  I  got  inside  the 
coach,  and  we  had  started,  I  suddenly  became 
aware  that  Christ  was  seated  outside  with  the 
driver.  My  first  impulse  was  to  touch  him;  so  I 
leaned  out  and  rested  my  hand  on  his  garments — 
when  I  felt  sure  it  was  Christ!  When  the  coach 
reached  the  half-way  house  at  Cambridgeport 
every  one  got  out,  and  Christ  also.  I  did  not,  but 
sat  looking  upon  Him  as  He  walked  to  and  fro. 
There  were  ordinary,  common  people  about,  and 
the  natural  prosaic  actions  of  such  a  place  going 


132 


"As  ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad." 

on.  I  was  aware  that  no  one  but  myself  saw  that 
strange  Being  in  Oriental  garments,  moving  with 
stately  steps  backward  and  forward  in  front  of  the 
busy  little  crowd  which  assembles  at  the  halfway 
house  when  a  stage  arrives.  But  that  did  not  seem 
strange  to  me,  nor  was  I  surprised  at  His  dress, 
so  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  looked  on,  for  at 
that  time  I  was  not  familiar  with  the  Arab  cos- 
tume; I  simply  thought:  'There  is  Christ!'  and 
every  sense  in  my  body  was  alive. 

"Then  came  the  bustle  of  starting,  and  then  the 
whole  dream  ended — the  vision  disappeared!  For 
years  and  years  that  appearance  has  haunted  me, 
and  over  and  over  again  have  I  tried  to  give  form 
and  shape  to  that  face  and  person,  which  I  saw  as 
plainly  as  I  see  you  now." — Roman  Letter. 


T  CANNOT  image  Him,  as  preachers  tell  us— 
•*•    The  tender  FRIEND  who  wept  with  Mary's 

tear — 

Enthroned  on  height  supernal,  and  beholding, 
Afar,  the  issue  of  our  conflict  here. 


Nay,  rather,  as  the  artist's  dreaming  fancy 
Beheld   him   journeying   with    the    throng   of 
men — 

Unseen  companion  of  our  wayside  faring — 
I  think  He  visits  our  sad  earth  again. 


133 


"As  Ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad." 

Not  where,  from  arch  to  arch,  cathedrals  echo 
The  repetitions  vain  He  scorned  of  old; 

Not  where  the  wealthy  and  the  titled  worship, 
And  dare  to  name  Him  Shepherd  of  their  fold ; 


Not  where  the  gilded  throng  of  fashion  gathers, 
Heedless  of  brother's  or  of  sister's  moan; 

Shining  in  robes  of  labor's  patient  weaving — 
Spurning  the  hand  of  toil  that  fills  their  own; 


Not  where  proud  Dives,  from  his  blazoned  portal, 
Regards  the  wretches  shivering  at  his  door, 

And  gives — to  feed  the  hungry,  clothe  the  naked — 
The  crumbs  of  wastefulness  from  lavish  store. 


But  where  in  sordid  garrets  women  shrivel, 
And  weary  feet  the  tireless  treadle  speed; 

Where  even  childhood's  hours  must  render  tribute 
To   never-ceasing,   ever-desperate   need; 


Where,  in  his  cheerless  home,  the  miner  cowers, 
(O   God!   that  we  should  call   such   shelter 
home)  ; 

And  where  the  factory  wheels,  incessant  turning, 
Are  tended  by  each  silent  human  gnome ; 


134 


"As  Ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad/' 

Where  the  broad  prairie,  thro'  long  days  of  sum- 
mer, 

Withers  from  green  to  brown — a  harvest  sere; 
And  the  spent  husbandman,  in  thought  despair- 
ing, 
Counts  the  stern  losses  of  the  hopeless  year; 


Wherever  love,  more  strong  than  death,  endur- 

eth; 
Where  man  for  man  can  doom  unfaltering 

meet; 
Wherever  purity  disdains  dishonor, 

And  want  and  woe  their  piteous  tale  repeat; 


Walks  He  not  there? — the  Man  of  Sorrows — 
marking 

Each  bitter  tear,  each  dumb  unspoken  grief jj 
Oh,  from  of  old,  acquainted  with  earth's  anguish, 

Doth  He  not  yearn  to  minister  relief? 


Think  you,  that  eye  of  tenderest  compassion 

Flashes  not  with  the  woe  denounced  of  yore ! 
Are  these  not,  then,  His  brethren'! — whom,  de- 
spising, 
Despoiling,  ye  pass  by  and  heed  no  more. 


135 


"As  Ye  Walk  and  Are  Sad." 

Have  ye  not  closed    your    ears,  lest  ye  should 

hearken 
The  deep,   dread  undertone    that    sinks  and 

swells  ? 

Soul,  take  thine  ease;  from  age  to  age  repeating, 
Misery's  monotone  its  plaining  tells. 


The  poor  have  always  with  us  their  abiding, 
'Tis  but  the  background,  where  Fate's  artist 
hand 

Darkens  the  shadow,   that  with  richer  splendor 
May  glow  the  marvel  of  the  picture  grand. 


Come,  Art  and  Science !  tell  the  wondrous  story : 
Are  we  not  gods  who  rule  these  latter  days? 

Earth,  hast  thou  ever  yielded  richer  trophies, 
Or  crowned  thy  conqueror's  brow  with  greener 
bays? 


Oh,  Temple  glorious!  of  the  great  world's  build- 
ing: 

Civilization!   Thou  art  History's  shrine. 
Yet,  not  one  stone  upon  another  standing, 
Was  doom    pronounced    of    old.     Shall  it  be 
thine? 


136 


WHAT  ANSWER? 

Only  when  I  first  realized  the  squalid  misery  of 
a  great  city,  it  appalled  and  tormented  me,  and 
would  not  let  me  rest,  for  thinking  of  what'  caused 
it  and  how  it  could  be  cured.— Progress  and  Pov- 
erty. 


T    DREAMED  of  a  city  proud— 
•*•     A  great  and  splendid  mart ; 
And,  methought,  from  the  shifting  crowd, 
I  stood  and  mused  apart. 


Back  and  forth,  as  the  flow 
And  ebb  of  the  restless  sea, 

The  tide  of  humanity  so 

Ebbed  and  flowed  around  me. 


Then,  suddenly,  I  was  'ware 
Of  an  angel  presence  near, 

And  knew  he  had  message  to  bear 
To  all  who  had  ears  to  hear. 

137 


What  Answer  f 

But  some  were  swift  to   deride: 
"What  will  this  babbler  say?" 
And  haughtily  others  cried, 

"To-morrow  shall  be  as  to-day!*' 


The  revel  of  wealth  rolled  by 
Thro'  a  royal  thoroughfare, 

And  drowned,  as  it  swept,  the  cry 
That  rose  from  a  great  despair. 


For  (marvel  strange  and  dread!), 
Keeping  step  with  the  dance  and  song 

Unheeded  as  are  the  dead, 

Marched   a  mighty,   terrible   throne:: 


Manhood,  with  branded  cheek 
And  sunken  eye  of  despair; 

Youth,  with  no  hope  to  seek, 
And  woman,  with  bosom  bare; 


Lost  souls  of  a  nether  world — 
Forever  of  earth  denied, 

Misery's  menace  they  hurled 
At  the  heaven  of  joy  and  pride. 

138 


What  Answer  ? 

To  the  future  they  marched  abreast; 

Splendor  of  pomp  and  power — 
Ranks  of  the  dispossessed — 

One  is  the  judgment  hour. 


But  pure  was  the  angel's  gaze, 
Undazzled  by  gleam  of  gold, 

And  deep,  thro'   his  spirit's  maze, 
The  doom  of  the  future  tolled. 


In  his  pain  he  cried  aloud, 

For  swift  came  the  day  of  fear: 

Or  ever  the  heavens  were  bowed, 
Might  they  but  turn  to  hear! 


And  still  in  my  dream  I  wait, 

While  the  dreadful  throng  goes  by; 

And  tremble  to  question  Fate — 
"What  of  the  angel's  cry?" 


139 


Oh,  bend  aback  the  lance's  point, 

And  break  the  helmet-bar! 
A  noise  is  in  the  morning  wind, 

But  not  the  note  of  war. 

— John  Ruskin. 


THE  BUGLE  IS  BLOWN! 

We  wait  for  the  bugle,  the  night  dews  are  cold, 
The  limbs  of  the  soldiers  feel  jaded  and  old, 
The  field  of  our  bivouac  is  windy  and  bare, 
There  is  lead  in  our  joints,  there  is  frost  in  our 

hair, 

The  future  is  veiled,  and  its  fortunes  unknown, 
As  we  lie  with   hushed   breath  till  the  bugle  is 

blown. 

— T.  W.  Higginson. 


bugle  is  blown,   is  blown! 
Up,  comrades!  it  calls  to  the  fray; 
The  tremulous  dark  is  all  sown 

With  gleams  of  the  swift-coming  day. 
What  matter   the  bivouac   dreary? — 

Like  a  dream  of  the  night  it  is  sped ! 
What  matter  limbs  stiffened  and  weary? — 
They  thrill  to  new  life  as  we  tread!  . 


The  bugle  is  blown,   is  blown! 

Fall  in!  for  the  battle  is  on. 
No  quarter  to  error  be  shown, 

No  truce  till  the  guerdon  is  won. 

143 


The  Bugle  is  Blown! 

Tho'  mighty  and  serried  the  forces 
That  marshal  our  steps  to  oppose, 

We  know  that  the  stars  in  their  courses 
Fight  still  against  Liberty's  foes. 


The  bugle  is  blown,  is  blown! 

The  bugle  eternal  of  truth! 
On  the  winds  of  the  wind  it  hath  flown- 

The  call  that  was  heard  in  our  youth. 
O  heart!  to  its  music  once  beating! 

O  soul!  that  once  leaped  in  reply! 
Do  ye  hearken  the  summons  repeating 

The  mandate  of  Liberty's  cry? 


The  bugle  is  blown,  is  blown! 

How  thought  ye  its  strain  could  be  stilled? 
Oh,  clear  as  of  old  it  was  blown, 

The  pulse  of  the  world  it  hath  thrilled! 
While  a  wrong  yet  remains  for  redressing, 

While  brotherhood's  claim  is  denied, 
To  hope  and  to  anguish  confessing, 

That  clarion  note  hath  replied. 


144 


The  Bugle  is  Blown  1 

The  bugle  is  blown,  is  blown! 

Up,  comrades!  it  calls  to  the  fray. 
And  clearer  and  clearer  is  grown 

The  light  of  the  quickening  day. 
Oh,  hearken!  for  fuller  and  higher 

It  swells  on  the  ambient  air — 
The  summons  to  souls  that  aspire 

For  Freedom  to  do  and  to  dare. 


"THE  SUNBURST." 

,  brother  dear,  and  did  you  hear, 
The  news  that's  going  round? 
The  glorious  news  that  joy  and  peace 

On  earth  shall  yet  be  found! 
That  hope  and  comfort  shall  make  glad 

The  wife  and  children  dear, 
And  manhood's  forehead  lose  its  frown, 
And  woman's  cheek  its  tear. 


I  met  with  one  who  brought  the  news, 

He  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  pointed  to  the  sunburst 

That  is  breaking  o'er  the  land ; 
And  his  voice  was  like  the  music 

When  our  own  dear  harp  is  stirred ; 
And  my  heart  forgot  its  anguish, 

And  its  anger — at  his  word. 


Then,  tho'  the  battle  must  be  fought, 
Our  courage  shall  not  fail! 

Nor  cruel  taunt — nor  cruel  blow, 
Shall  make  our  spirit  quail. 


146 


"The  Sunburst" 

The  spotless  banner  that  shall  float 
Our  serried  ranks  above, 

From  every  gleaming  fold  repeats 
The  sacred  name  of  Love. 


Oh,  not  by  wrath  and  vengeance, 

Do  we  seek  to  right  the  wrong — 
The  sighing  of  the  needy, 

The  oppression  of  the  strong; 
For  our  God  hath  now  arisen — 

And  his  covenant  is  sure; 
He  hath  not  forgot  forever 

The  affliction  of  the  poor, 


147 


FOR  HUMANITY! 

TV  yf  EN,  who  hear  the  children's  cry ! 
*-**•     Men,  who  hearken  woman's  sigh! 
Pledge  once  more  your  purpose  high 

For  humanity! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour! 
Would  ye,  listless,   shame  your  power? 
Would  ye,  craven,  shrink  and  cower? 

Choose  ye  liberty! 

Unto  you  the  ages  call! 
Will  ye,  helpless,  die  in  thrall? 
Up!  for  freedom,  one  and  all, 

Strike  the  bloodless  blow! 
Not  by  strife  on  battle-field, 
Not  by  clash  of  sword  and  shield; 
Mightier  arms  hath  truth  to  wield 

O'er  relentless  foe! 


By  the  chain  that  bound  us  long, 
By  the  past  of  shame  and  wrong, 
We  have  vowed  our  manhood  strong 
That  we  shall  be  free! 

I48 


For  Humanity  / 

See  the  front  of  battle  lower! 
Fear  ye  Evil's  dying  powerjj 
God's  own  hand  has  struck  the  hour 
For  humanity! 


Up!  our  heritage   to  claim! 
Up!  in  love   and   honor's   name! 
Hearts  that  falter,  would  ye  shame 

Trust  our  fathers  gave? 
Once  again  the  belfry  swings, 
Freedom's  bell  above  us  rings: 
Palter  not  with  baser  things! 

Rest — but  in  the  grave. 


149 


THE  NEW  CRUSADE. 

,  our  hearts  are  beating  strong, 
With  the  pulses  of  our  youth! 
Be  the  battle  short  or  long, 

We  have  pledged  to  it  our  truth. 
We  can  hear  the  trampling  feet 

Of  our  comrades  from  afar, 
As  the  columns  form  and  meet — 
Marching  to  the  Holy  War. 


Tho'  we  may  not  share  the  thrill 

Where  the  ranks  are  closed  in  fight, 
Yet,  on  picket-duty  still, 

We  are  standing  for  the  right. 
Sound  the  challenge  loud  and  clear, 

Under  sun  and  under  star; 
It  a  brother's  soul  may  cheer — 

Marching  to  the  Holy  War. 


150 


The  New  Crusade. 

As  the  warrior  of  yore 

Bound  his  lady's  favor  on; 
Vowed  to  die  or  to  restore 

What  the  Saracen  had  won; 
We  have  vowed,  by  love  and  home, 

And  the  watching  heavens  afar, 
We  will  yet  victorious  come — 

Marching  from  the  Holy  War. 


In  the  sepulcher  of  wrong 

They  have  buried  hope  and  faith; 
And  with  impious  hand  and  strong, 

Bound  and  sealed  the  door  of  death. 
But  the  mighty  hosts  of  Love 

Yet  the  dungeon  shall  unbar: 
We  can  see  the  legions  move — 

Marching  to  the  Holy  War. 


On!    From  height  to  height  advance! 

Gleams  our  standard  in  the  sun, 
Marshaled  not  by  sword  or  lance, 

To  the  triumphs  it  hath  won. 
Round  that  banner  of  the  Cross, 

Angel-cohorts  thronging  are. 
Dare  we  count,  or  gain,  or  loss? 

Marching  to  the  Holy  War. 


151 


The  New  Crusade. 

By  the  faith  of  woman  dear, 

And  by  lisping  childhood 's  trust ; 
By  the  love  that  conquers  fear, 

And  by  manhood's  purpose  just, 
Brothers!  gather  for  the  fray; 

We  can  hear  the  bugles  far, 
They  are  calling  us  to-day — 

Marching  to  the  Holy  War. 


152 


THE  DAY  THAT  YET  SHALL  BE. 

TARING  the  good  old  bugle,  boys!  we'll  sing 

•*^       another  song — 

Sing  it  with  the  courage  that  to  right  and  truth 

belong ! 

Sing  it  as  we  hope  to  sing  it,  fifty  million  strong, 
As  we  go  marching  to  victory! 


CHORUS: — Hurrah!  hurrah!  we  bring  the  jubi- 
lee! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  truth  that  makes  you  free! 
So  we  sing  the  chorus  of  the  day  that  yet  shall  be 
As  we  go  marching  to  victory! 


Dark  the  days  behind  us  were — dark  with  doubt 

and  fears; 
Bitter  was  our  sighing  thro*  the  long  and  weary 

years; 
Yet  our  God  has  promised — and  His  hand  shall 

wipe  our  tears, 

As  we  go  marching  to  victory! 


153 


The  Day  That  Yet  Shall  Be. 

All  the  sky  is  flushing  with  the  glory  of  the  dawn. 
Hark!  the  loud  reveille,  for  the  night  is  past  and 

gone; 
Ready  for  the  combat,  brothers!  gird  your  armor 

on, 

For  we  go  marching  to  victory! 


White  and  pure  our  banner,   as  our   Master's 

promised  reign; 
Crimson  as  the  brotherhood  that  flows  from  vein 

to  vein; 
Blue  as  yon  deep  heaven,  which  echoes  back  our 

strain, 

As  we  go  marching  to  victory! 


Lo!  the  desert  blossoms  in  our  pathway  like  the 

rose; 
Crooked  places  straighten ;  and  the  hill  and  valley 

close  ; 
Who,  when  God  hath  spoken,  shall  His  gathered 

hosts  oppose? 

As  they  go  marching  to  victory! 


154 


THE    PROMISE   AND    HOPE   OF   THE 
RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE. 

,  say,  do  you  see  how  our  banner  of  light, 
Even  now  from  Truth's  ramparts  is  gal- 
lantly streaming? 
In   the  blue  of  the  skies  are  its  stars  flashing 

bright ; 
In  the  glow  of  the  dawn  are  its  stripes  ruddy 

gleaming. 
And  the  thanksgiving  glad  of  all  hearts  that  are 

sad, 

Shall  cleanse  the  last  stain  that  its  purity  had, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  again  shall  be  true 
To  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  Red,  White  and 
Blue! 

Oh,  the  mists  have  hung  damp  on  its  radiant  fold, 
And  haply  we  deemed  that  its  luster  was  faded ; 

But  full  to  the  breeze  is  its  splendor  unrolled, 
And  the  sun  hath  illumed  every  tint  that  was 
shaded. 


155 


Promise  and  Hope  of  the  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

Hark,  Liberty's  call!  to  her  sons— one  and  all — 
Again  into  rank,  'neath  that  ensign  to  fall! 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  once  more  to  make 

true 
To  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  Red,  White  and 

Blue! 


Once  more  shall  our  land  be  the  home  of  the  free, 
With  peace  in  her  borders,  from  hill-top  to  val- 

ley. 
Once  more  shall  our  Flag  proudly  float  o'er  the 

sea, 
And  the  navies  of  Commerce  to  meet  it  shall 

rally! 

No  triumph  so  grand  hath  the  past  ever  spanned, 
As  yet  shall  be  ours,  when  like  brothers  we  stand ; 
And  earth  will  re-echo  the  pledge  we  renew 
To  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  Red,  White  and 

Blue! 


As  the  heroes  who  died  for  humanity's  right, 
We,  too,  will  be  free  from  our  fetters  enslav- 
ing! 

No  more  shall  our  land  'neath  Monopoly's  blight 
But  mock  the  bright  banner  that's  over  us  wav- 
ing. 


156 


Promise  and  Hope  of  the  Red,  White  and  Blue. 

No  more  shall  we  toil  for  the  Lords  of  the  Soil, 
Nor  waste  Nature's  store  to  replenish  their  oil; 
But — our  heritage  claiming — forever  make  true 
The  promise  and  hope  of  the  Red,  White  and 
Blue! 


157 


Bosomed   in  yon   green   hills,   alone — 
A  secret  nook  in  a  pleasant  land. 

— Emerson. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

(In  California.) 

T  T  was  folded  away  from  strife, 

*•     In  the  beautiful  pastoral  hills; 

And  the  mountain  peaks  kept  watch  and  ward 

O'er  the  peace  that  the  valley  fills — 
Kept  watch  and  ward  lest  the  bold  world  pass 

The  fair  green  rampart  of  hills. 

No  factory  din  profaned 

The  joy  of  the  summer  morn; 
But  the  tinkle  of  bells  from  the  pasture-slope, 

And  the  rustle  of  waving  corn, 
And    the    wreathing    smoke    from    the    cottage 
hearth, 

Saluted  the  rising  morn. 

The  rains  of  the  winter  fell 

In  benison  on  its  sod  ; 
And  the  smiling  fields  of  the  spring  looked  up, 

A  thanksgiving  glad  to  God ; 
And  the  little  children  laughed  to  see 

The  wild-flowers  star  the  sod. 


161 


The  Passing  of  The  Village. 

The  opulent  Summer  came, 

Like  a  queen,  to  the  vale  she  loved; 

And  lavished  her  gifts  with  a  royal  grace 
That  never  a  wish  reproved; 

Oh,  she  lingered  long,  as  if  loath  to  leave 
The  sunny  vale  that  she  loved. 

The  wains  on  the  highway  thronged, 

O'erladen  with  Autumn's  spoil; 
Like  a  train  triumphal,  from  conquest  won, 

They  passed  from  the  fields  of  toil — 
The  fields  where  Labor  hath  kingly  right 

To  rifle  the  garnered  spoil. 

The  traffic  of  simple  life 

That  draws  man  near  to  man; 
The  village  street,  and  the  farmstead  home — 

The  tie  of  a  kindred  clan; 
And  the  common  bond  to  the  "brown  old  earth," 

The  primal  strength  of  man. 

"Let  not  ambition  mock" 

Such  "destiny  obscure" ; 
The  mighty  stream,  that  a  navy  bears, 

Was  fed  from  the  fountain  pure 
Of  a  hillside  spring  that  its  freshness  kept 

In  the  depths  of  the  glade  obscure. 


162 


The  Passing  of  The  Village. 

Hark!  hark!  to  the  thunderous  roar! 

Like  a  demon  of  fable  old, 
The  fiery  steed  of  the  rail  hath  swept 

Through  the  ancient  mountain-hold, 
And  the  green  hills  shudder  to  feel  his  breath— 

The  challenge  of  New  to  Old. 


But  the  spirit  of  man  awakes, 
And  thrills  to  the  larger  life; 

A  force  resistless  his  soul  hath  claimed, 
He  is  part  of  the  great  world-strife! 

And  far  and  dim  in  the  distance  fades 
That  first  fair  dawn  of  life. 


Yet,  day  of  power  and  pride! 

Forget  not  thou  that  dawn; 
From  simple  hearts,  and  from  simple  homes, 

Is  the  strength  of  a  nation  drawn; 
And  ever  the  earth  her  life  renews 

In  the  dew  and  the  peace  of  dawn. 

San  Luis  Obispo,  March,  1901. 


163 


THE  DROUTH;  SOUTHERN  CALIFOR- 
NIA. 

(1898.) 

XT  O  low  of  cattle  from  these  silent  fields 

Fills,  with  soft  sounds  of  peace,  the  eve- 
ning air; 

No  fresh-mown  hay  its  scented  incense  yields 
From  these  sad  meadows,  stricken  brown  and 

bare. 
The  brook,  that  rippled  on  its  summer  way, 

Shrinks  out  of  sight  within  its  sandy  bed, 
Defenseless  of  a  covert  from  the  ray, 

Dazzling  and  pitiless,  that  beams  o'erhead. 


The  rose  has  lost  its  bloom;  the  lily  dies; 

Our  gardens'  perfumed  treasures  all  are  fled ; 
The  bee  no  longer  to  their  sweetness  flies ; 

The  humming-bird  no  longer  dips  his  head. 
The  butterfly — that  fairy-glancing  thing — 

Ethereal  blossom  of  the  light  and  air! 
No  longer  pauses  on  its  fluttering  wing. 

How  could  it  hover  in  this  bleak  despair? 


164 


The  Drouth;  Southern  California. 

Hope  dies  within  man's  breast.     The  mountains 
far, 

That  stood  the  guardians  of  the  fruitful  plain, 
Now,  like  stern  sentinels  of  grim-visaged  war, 

Seem  but  the  silent  witness  of  the  slain. 
The  orchard  boughs,  of  promise  unfulfilled, 

Drop,  ere  the  autumn  come,  their  futile  leaf; 
The  song  that  stirred  the  woodland,  hushed  and 
stilled, 

Faints  like  the  sob  of  some  unspoken  grief. 


Ye  who  have  watched  this  desolation  grow, 
Hath  it  no  message  for  your  inner  ear? 
Lo!  Nature  holds  her  mirror  up  to  show 
What  man  hath  wrought  for  man,  in  higher 

sphere. 
Hath  not  the  song  been  hushed  on  childhood's 

lips, 

In  those  dark  hives  we  name  our  cities  proud? 
And   have  not  harvests  suffered   foul   eclipse, 
Where    man's    unbridled    greed    the    labo 
bowed  ? 


Have  ye  not  trafficked  in  the  fair  glad  earth — 
Staining  her  bosom  with  your  sordid  strife? 

And  when  she  blessed  you  with  her  fruitful  birth  r 
Denied  her  largesse  to  her  toiler's  life? 


165 


The  Drouth;  Southern  California. 

Veil!     Veil  your   face!     Nor   dare   to   murmur 

now 

The  gifts  withheld,  so  impiously  misspent! 
heavens  again  in  blessedness  shall  bow, 
When  man  hath  learned  the  lesson  God  hatn 
sent. 


Then,  then,  the  stream  shall  laugh  upon  its  way! 

And  all  the  little  hills  shall  shout  for  joy! 
The  smiling  field  its  harvest  not  delay, 

And  flocks  and  herds  the  shepherds'  care  em- 
ploy. 
For  Justice  from  the  wakened  earth  shall  spring, 

And   Righteousness    look   down    from    realms 

above, 
When  man  to  man  his  tribute  glad  shall  bring, 

And  worship  God  in  Brotherhood  and  Love ! 


166 


AFTER  THE  RAIN. 

April,  1899. 

WEET  fields  stand  dressed  in  living  green," 

That  late  were  brown  and  bare! 
The  twitter  of  the  calling  birds 
With  music  fills  the  air. 


The  brook  is  rippling  on  its  way 
To  join  the  river's  flow; 

The  orchard  boughs  are  hid  to-day 
In  drifts  of  rosy  snow. 

Was  ever  sky  so  heavenly  blue — 
"Clear  shining  after  rain!" 

Was  ever  wind  so  soft  and  pure, 
To  breathe  away  our  pain ! 

Oh,  roses  white,  and  roses  red, 
Your  fragrant  leaves  unfold! 

Oh,  lily,  lift  your  chalice  pure, 
And  show  your  heart  of  gold ! 

167 


After  The  Rain. 

m 

The  happy  children  laden  come 
From  hillside  and  from  field, 

With  treasure  frail  of  wild-flower  Dioom, 
More  dear  than  gardens  yield. 


The  farmer  marks  the  sprouting  grain ; 

Forgets  his  care  and  moil; 
The  radiant  promise  of  the  spring 

Transfigures  all  his  toil. 


He  sees  the  waving  harvest's  yield 
In  every  springing  blade; 

Oh,  richly  nourished  shall  it  grow 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade! 


The  bleat  of  lamb,  the  low  of  kine — 

How  softly  on  the  ear 
The  blended  notes  of  sylvan  life 

Melt,  in  the  distance  clear. 


And  all  Earth's  children,  small  and  great, 
(Not  thee,  proud  Man,  alone), 

Rejoicing,  each  in  their  degree, 
Her  benediction  own. 


168 


After  The  Rain. 

Sweet  Nature !  how  thy  bounty  shames 
Our  petty  hoard  of  greed, 

That  molders,  as  the  manna  did, 
With  taint  of  selfish  deed. 


But  thine  the  mercies  ever  new, 
At  morning  and  at  eve; 

Rebuking  still  our  anxious  fear, 
Who,  faithless,  toil  and  grieve. 


"Praise  God   from   Whom   all  blessings  flow,' 

Our  lips  repeat  full  fain; 
Oh,  deeply  may  our  lives  enshrine 

The  lesson  of  the  rain. 


169 


DESECRATION. 

[One  of  the  pleasant  memories  of  my  past  is  a 
day  spent  at  the  Big  Tree  Grove,  near  Felton — a 
spot  possessing  an  historical  interest  as  having 
been  the  camping  ground  of  General  Fremont  in 
the  days  of  California's  first  settlement.  None  of 
our  little  party  had  yet  learned  to  question  the 
right  of  private  property  in  land;  but  I  think  it 
would  have  come  to  any  of  us  with  something  of 
a  shock  to  hear  that  the  "owner"  of  this  natural 
wonder  had  determined  to  assert  his  prerogative, 
and  fence  in  at  least  the  base  of  those  giants  of 
the  redwoods  (for  their  towering  tops  were  be- 
yond even  a  landlord's  power)  from  the  vulgar 
gaze,  except  on  the  payment  of  a  toll  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  viewing  them.  Quite  recently,  however, 
this  has  actually  been  done,  to  the  great  indigna- 
tion of  the  peoole  of  Santa  Cruz  County  generally; 
though  why  they  should  feel  so  aggrieved  and  out- 
raged by  this  particular  instance  of  a  system 
which  no  doubt  most  of  them  strenuously  support, 
is  not  easy  to  understand.  For  surely  it  is  a 
greater  wrong  and  injury  to  others  to  debar  from 
use  fields  waiting  for  the  tillage,  than  these  old 
land-marks — wonderful  though  they  be — from  the 
pleasure  seeker's  gaze.  But  the  voice  of  Nature 
will  be  heard  sometimes,  even  by  the  most  insen- 
sate; and  this  desecration  of  one  of  "God's  first 
temples"  arouses  feelings  untarnished  by  thoughts 
of  gain.] 

170 


Desecration. 

T  N  what  dim  morn  of  Time  did  Nature  nourish 
•*•  Thy  mighty  roots,  O  monarch  of  the  glade? 
What  dawns  and  sunsets  saw  thee  spread  and 

flourish  ? — 
An  ever-widening,  ever-deepening  shade! 


Beneath  thy  boughs  umbrageous  who  could  lin- 
ger—- 
Marking with   awe   thy   green   and   towering 

height — 

And  dream  that  here  man's  sacrilegious  finger 
Dare  lay  its  claim  to  desecrate  and  blight? 


"Dust  unto  dust"  the  generations  perished 
Uncounted,  while  thy  years  majestic  rolled. 

The  stately  growth  earth's  changing  seasons  cher- 
ished, 
Still  undecayed,  man's  wondering  eyes  behold. 


What!  bar  the  marvel  from  our  common  seeing? 

And  levy  toll  upon  the  gifts  of  God? 
Nay,  why  condemn?     We  gave  his  claim  its  be- 
ing; 

We — impious — named  him  owner  of  the  sod. 


171 


Desecration. 

O  over-arching  skies,  your  azure  spaces 
Rebuke  the  grasping  of  man's  sordid  soul! 

O  winds,  that  over  green  or  desert  places. 
Blow  as  ye  list,  ye  mock  his  vain  control! 


Alas,  fair  Earth!  art  thou  alone  the  fated, 
The  immemorial  slave  of  human  greed? 

Shall  lust  of  power  and  gold  on  thee  be  sated, 
Whose  bosom  satisfies  each  mortal  need? 


Believe  it  not!  else  God  Himself  were  faithless, 
Or  evil  strong  His  purpose  to  withstand: 

Oh,  long  delayed!  deliverance  waiteth  nathless, 
To  free  the  captive  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 


172 


PRO  PATRIA. 

"My  country  is  the  world; 
My  countrymen  are  all  mankind." 

H,  say  not  that  our  souls  deny 

The  universal  claim, 
If  warmer  tear  and  softer  sigh 
Rise  to  the  lip  and  dim  the  eye, 
When  one  dear  spot  we  name. 


As  gentlest  memories  stir  the  heart 

At  childhood's  lisping  phrase: 
Forgotten  manhood's  selfish  mart, 
Life  seems  again  a  guileless  part 
Of  those  untrammeled  days. 


So,  softly  syllabled,  we  hear 

The  un  forgotten  word — 
Whate'er  its  sound — that  to  each  ear, 
In  love's  own  tongue,  doth  utter  clear 

Home's  first  sweet  welcome  heard. 

173 


Pro  Patria. 

And  for  a  moment  (cheating  Time) 

The  onward  hurrying  year 
Stays  its  swift  flight,  in  that  bright  clime 
Where  life  hath  naught  of  grief  or  crime 

To  dim  the  radiant  sphere. 


What  matter,  tho'  too  well  we  know 

How  faded  vision  high?. 
And  stern  and  sad  with  sin  and  woe, 
And  dark  from  all  that  morning  glow, 

Earth's  boundary  we  descry? 


We  feel  once  more  the  bounding  joy 

That  young  existence  gives; 
And  all  the  future's  glad  employ, 
Rising  before  the  girl  and  boy, 
On  Hope's  bright  canvas  lives! 


Even  so  the  traveler,  worn  and  gray, 

Returning  from  afar, 
Forgets  the  long  and  lonely  way, 
The  mountain-pass,  the  storm's  delay. 

Untoward  fortune's  scar. 


J74 


Pro  Patria. 

If  in  the  distance  he  behold, 
Lit  by  the  sunset's  flame, 
The  fields  he  knew,  the  steeple  old, 
The  cottage  that  did  once  enfold 
All  joy  his  heart  could  frame. 


Oh,  say  not,  then,  our  souls  deny 

The  universal  claim, 
If  thus  fond  memory  make  reply 
When  heard  beneath  an  alien  sky 

Our  birthplace'  hallowed  name. 


Dear  little  island,  green  and  fair ! 

Earth's  bounty  named  for  me— 
My  infant  exile  may  not  share 
Remembrance  of  thee,  but  I  bear 

A  loyal  love  to  thee. 


175 


Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  forebod- 
ing cry 

Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from 
whose  feet  earth's  chaff  must  fly; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judg- 
ment hath  passed  by. 

— James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  COMMONWEALTH. 

HP  HE  Commonwealth — the  Commonweal: 

Words  that  we  mouth  with  facile  tongue ; 
But  did  we  think — but  did  we  feel — 

With  passion  were  they  said  and  sung. 
With  consecration  of  the  soul, 

With  thrilling  impulse  of  the  heart, 
In  Life's  immortal,  wondrous  whole, 

We  would  aspire  to  bear  our  part. 


Oh,  poverty  of  self  and  greed! 

Oh,  poverty  of  pomp  and  pride! 
How  starve  the  souls  that  on  ye  feed — 

How  starve  the  lives  by  ye  denied ! 
Ye  will  not  own,  in  purpose  high, 

The  law  that  Nature's  bounties  prove; 
But  can  ye  break  the  mystic  tie 

That  binds  to  hate  or  binds  to  love  ? 


"Ye  all  are  brethren,"  spake  the  Voice 
That  stilled  the  storm  on  midnight  sea; 

And  if  we  grieve,  or  if  rejoice, 

Or  strive,  or  love — we  yet  must  be. 


179 


The  Commonwealth. 

On  each,  on  all,  the  sunbeams  shine; 

On  each,  on  all,  descends  the  rain  ; 
3h,  to  that  order  most  divine, 

Shall  man  a  rebel  still  remain? 


Forbid  it!  every  drop  that  flows 

In  crimson  through  the  pulsing  vein. 
Forbid  it!  every  thought  that  glows — 

A  spark  divine — within  the  brain. 
Nay,  hope  must  fail,  and  memory  die, 

And  faith  lie  withered  in  the  dust, 
And  Heaven  itself  its  truth  deny, 

If  vanquished  were  that  sacred  trust. 

The  Commonwealth — not  kingly  sway, 

But  manhood's  dignity  secure; 
The  Commonweal — that  none  may  stay 

The  hand  of  toil  from  harvest  sure. 
Pure  dawn  of  peace !  our  clouded  skies 

Faint  promise  of  thy  coming  show; 
But  somewhere,  sometime,  wilt  thou  rise, 

And  life  with  beauty  overflow. 

Athwart  the  world's  delirium  pain, 
Those  chords  of  music  softly  sweep; 

We  dimly  hear  the  far  refrain, 

Like  dreamers  troubled  in  their  sleep. 

180 


The  Commonwealth. 

But  not  in  vain  the  Chosen  Few 
Strive,  that  the  future  shall  reveal 

A  glorious  earth  and  heaven  new — 
A  Commonwealth,  a  Commonweal! 


BEAT  THE  LONG  ROLL! 

[The  meeting  held  (1893)  in  Faneuil  Hall,  Bos- 
ton, to  nrotest  against  the  Extradition  Treaty  with 
Russia.] 

VTES,  we  have  hunted  the  poor,  the  despairing, 
The  helpless,  the  captive,  the  bought  and 

the  sold! 
We  bowed  our  proud  necks  to  the  shame,  as  if 

wearing 

Thy  signet,  O  Slavery!  were  honor  untold. 
God!  how  we  writhed,  when  we  sought  without 

finding 
Place  for  repentance,    with    care    and    with 

tears — 

Shuddering  tears,  that  in  blood  that  was  blinding 
Still  mark  the  path  of  those  terrible  years. 


Now — to  be  blood-hounds,  at  Tyranny's  order 
To  track  to  their  refuge  the  brave  and  the  true, 

Who — all  undoubting — had  sought  in  our  border 
Faith  unto  valor  from  Liberty  due. 

182 


Beat  The  Long  Roll! 

Furl  the  old  flag,  then !  of  crape  be  its  shrouding, 
(Oh,  that  its  stars  should  thus  quench  their 

pure  light!), 

Red  is  the  glow  of  its  stripes  through  that  cloud- 
ing— 

Red  as  the  torch  that  shall  flame  through   our 
night. 

We,  to  strike  hands  with  the  despot,  and  flourish 

Over  his  victim  the  death-dealing  knout! 
Vainly,  oh,  vainly,  did  patriots  nourish, 

With  their  warm  life-blood,   the  freedom  we 

flout. 
Witness  against  us,  ye  footprints  that  reddened 

The  ice-fettered  waters  of  Delaware's  flow! 
Witness  against  us,  ye  Spirits  who  gladdened 

When  the  proud  force  of  Cornwallis  lay  low! 

Arnold!    thy    crime    a    strange    whiteness   shall 
gather — 

Here  is  a  guilt  that  bemocks  thy  poor  name ; 
Deep  as  the  son's  who  dishonors  his  father 

Base  as  the  father,  his  child  who  would  shame. 
Rust  in  thy  casket,  O  Key  that  was  given 

From  Lafayette's  France  to  our  Washington's 

hand! 
Dreader  than  dungeon  in  Bastile  unshriven, 

Is  the  dark  doom  of  Siberia's  strand. 


183 


Beat  The  Long  Roll! 

Ring  the  loud  tocsin !  From  temple  and  dwelling, 

From  mart  and  from  farmstead,  haste!  haste! 

at  the  call. 
Hark  to  the  deep  tones  that,  rising  and  swelling, 

Are   borne  on   the  breezes  from   old   Faneuil 

Hall! 
Shame  on  the  freeman  would  falter  or  dally! 

Shame  on  the  heart  that  were  cold  to  reply ! 
Beat  the  long  roll!  it  is  Brotherhood's  rally; 

God  and  humanity  would  we  deny? 

Note.— The  key  of  the  Bastile  given  by  Lafa- 
yette to  Washington  is  still  preserved  at  Mt.  Ver- 
non. 


THE  PORTENT. 

The  press  dispatches  inform  us  that  the  life-size 
portrait  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  in  the  great  "East 
Room"  of  the  White  House,  fell  to  the  floor  on 
Sunday  morning  last. — Nov.  24,  1900. 

During  the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  under  Titus,  the 
watchers  in  the  Temple  heard,  at  midnight,  voices 
crying,  "Let  us  depart  hence!"  and  the  sound  as 
of  a  multitude  of  invisible  presences  leaving  the 
Holy  Place. 

«T    ET  us  go  hence!"  the  Voices  cried; 

•"     The  Angels  vanished  in  the  gloom; 
The  watching  Priests  stood  mute  with  fear; 

The  Holy  Place  was  left  a  tomb! 
Not  foul  with  vapors  of  the  mould, 

Nor  dread  with  shapes  that  know  decay; 
But  dark  with  horror  of  the  soul— 

A  darkness  not  to  pass  away! 


Doubt  not,  the  scoffers  of  that  day 
Contemned  the  portent  (as  do  we!), 

While  on  their  pale,  distorted  lips 

Was  stamped  the  lie  that  all  might  see. 

185 


The  Portent. 

They  trembled  'neath  the  shadowed  Cross, 
They  trembled  at  that  parting  cry! 

Then  turned  again  to  work  their  will — 
Their  will,  that  would  the  Heavens  defy. 

Their  day  is  done;  their  fate  fulfilled. 

Still,  still,  the  mighty  forces  close! 
The  hosts  of  Darkness  and  of  Light, 

Embattled,  on  the  field  oppose. 
Still  pleads  the  Prophet  of  the  Lord  ; 

And  still  the  pitying  Angels  wait, 
And  linger  long — in  sad  delay — 

To  leave  the  darkened  Temple  gate. 

O  Lincoln!  thine  the  martyr's  crown, 

And  thine  the  prophet  soul  of  old! 
Doth  not  thy  lofty  spirit  bend, 

Even  now,  the  conflict  to  behold? 
Aye!  we  may  put  the  portent  by, — 

In  mercy  and  in  warning  given, — 
But  none  the  less  our  being's  deep 

Thrills,  troubled  by  that  breath  from  Heaven. 

O  Spirits  of  the  glorious  Past! 

Turn  not  in  stern  reproach  away; 
Leave  not  the  Temple  of  your  Hope 

To  desolation's  dread  decay! 

186 


The  Portent. 

Let  not  the  hordes  of  Power  and  Greed 
Pollute  the  fane  where  Freedom  dwelt; 

Where  Heroes  to  her  service  vowed; 
Where  Sages  and  where  Poets  knelt! 


Our  hands  have  marred  the  work  ye  wrought; 

Our  souls  are  stained  with  Passion's  fires; 
Our  eyes  forego  the  Truth  ye  saw; 

We  fail  before  your  high  desires. 
But  leave  not  now  the  land  ye  loved — 

Watch  o'er  us  through  the  shadows  dense! 
Forbid  it,  God !  that  we  should  hear 

That  voice  of  doom:    "Let  us  go  hence!" 


187 


"IT  IS  GOD'S  WAY." 
(Dying  words  of  President  McKinley.) 

«~r>  E  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God." 
•*-*      HIS,  only,  is  the  avenging  rod, 
HE  will  repay;  shall  mortal  breath 
Dare  to  appraise  the  deed  of  death? 


The  chalice  of  the  ages  fills ; 
While,  drop  by  drop,  in  it  distills 
The  anguish  of  a  world-wide  throe — 
The  travail  of  our  life  below. 


We  are  but  units  in  the  plan; 
The  vast  design  we  may  not  scan; 
One  Eye  alone  beholds  unrolled 
The  end   from  the  beginning  told. 


Not  swayed  by  passion's  wild  desires — 
A  fluctuant  flame  that  leaps  and  tires ; 
But  calm,  and  just,  and  greatly  wise, 
O  People!  from  thy  grief  arise. 


188 


"It  Is  God's  Way." 

By  the  dread  anguish  of  this  hour, 
Arise!  to  grander  heights  of  power; 
A  fuller  faith  in  manhood  prove; 
And  in  the  van  of  nations  move. 


Not  thine  the  trust  of  despots  old — 
The  scaffold-beam,  the  dungeon-hold, 
(A  barrier  built,  to  fall  again!) 
Thy  trust  is  in  the  hearts  of  men. 


Aye!  though  the  cross  be  on  thee  laid, 
That  trust  shall  never  be  betrayed; 
The  dastard  hand  that  wrought  thy  woe 
Laid  not  thy  loyal  honor  low. 


Searcher  of  hearts !    To  Thee  we  kneel ; 
Thou  who  hast  stricken  and  canst  heal, 
Thy  will  be  done!     The  prayer  fulfill; 
Teach  us,  O  God,  to  do  Thy  will. 


189 


UPON  THE  FOURTH. 


I  HEARD  the  bugles  play, 
And  I  heard  the  drum-beat  call; 
And  the  gathered  throng  was  gay, 

In  the  street  and  in  the  hall; 
And  the  floating  banners  spread 

All  their  splendor  to  the  light, 
While  the  sapphire  sky  o'erhead 
Glowed,  to  consecrate  the  sight. 


Then  the  tumult  fell  away, 

And  the  Nation's  creed  was  read; 
Ah !  I  wondered,  much,  that  day, 

Did  the  grand,  heroic  dead 
Feel  it  sacrilege  or  praise, 

When  the  mighty  words  ou trolled, 
That  could  once  the  standard  raise 

In  the  glorious  days  of  old. 

190 


Upon  The  Fourth. 

The  anthem  rose  and  swelled, 

And  the  strain  was  sweet  to  hear 
Like  a  living  fount  it  welled 

For  home  and  country  dear: 
"My  country!  'tis  of  thee" — 

And  vale  and  hill  replied, 
"Land  of  the  noble  free! 

Land  where  our  fathers  died!" 


A  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

Where  "the  breaking  waves  dashed  high," 
And  a  dauntless  pilgrim  host 

Who  could  more  than  death  defy: 
Upon  my  spirit's  sight 

That  vision  flashed  and  fled ; 
And,  as  summoned  by  its  might, 

Another  rose  instead. 


Where  the  sands  of  Afric  drank 

The  life-blood  of  the  brave, 
The  music  rose  and  sank 

Like  dirge  beside  a  grave. 
They  had  looked  to  us  in  hope; 

Their  present  and  our  past, 
Across  the  centuries'  slope 

Reached  hands — to  fall  unclasped. 

IQI 


Upon  The  Fourth. 

The  dazzling  skies  looked  down 

On  a  tropic  isle  afar; 
On  beleaguered  bay  and  town, 

On  a  mighty  host  of  war. 
A  flag  was  floating  wide, 

But  my  eyes  were  dim  to  see: 
Not  thine  be  conquest's  pride, 

"Land  of  the  noble  free!" 


"My  country,  'tis  of  thee"— 

How  thrills  the  raptured  chord! 
Unconquered,  pure  and  free — 

Still  by  thy  sons  adored. 
The  power  to  hold  in  thrall — 

Base  boast  of  kings'  emprise! 
Be  thine  the  nobler  call, 

To  bid  the  peoples  rise! 


I  heard  the  bugles  play, 

But  my  soul  was  sad  to  hear; 
For  a  shade  was  on  the  day 

We  held  so  proud  and  dear. 
From  mad  ambition's  blight 

(A  darker  doom  to  bring!) 
"Preserve  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God— our  King." 

192 


THE  BOER, 

T  1  WHETHER  he  win,  or  whether  he  fail, 
^      The  Cause  is  the  freeman's  glory! 
Aye!  though  she  slay  him,  in  Freedom  still 

He  trusts  through  the  conflict  gory. 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  doth  the  battle  rule; 

Be  ours   the   high   deserving: 
So,  whether  we  win  or  whether  we  fail, 

We  keep  our  front  without  swerving. 


We  weep  not  now  for  our  heroes  gone; 

For  our  captive  Chief  bewail  not. 
Our  eye  is  clear  for  the  work  to  do; 

Our  hand  is  steady  to  fail  not. 
Though  the  roof-tree  blaze  and  the  field  go  bare, 

And  the  loved  of  our  heart  be  harried — 
Is  it  time  for  tears'?'     There  were  need  to  weep 

If  the  Cause  we  have  pledged  miscarried. 


193 


The  Boer. 

The  world  looks  on,  and  the  world  goes  by, 

With  never  a  hand  for  aiding. 
(Oh,  deep  was  the  pang  in  our  bosom's  core, 

In  the  days  when  that  hope  was  fading!) 
But  we  look  no  more  to  the  nations  far, 

Who  are  dumb  to  a  people's  sorrow; 
Our  loins  are  girt,  and  our  faith  is  firm, 

Whatever  betide  to-morrow. 


Whether  we  win,  or  whether  we  fail — 

Though  long  be  our  fate's  delaying, 
We   shall   not  be   found  wanting — we  trust  in 
Him— 

When  the  balance  of  God  is  weighing. 
For  Freedom's  cause  is  the  cause  divine, 

And  her  night  has  ever  its  morning! 
When  Babylon's  towers  have  fallen  to  dust, 

And  her  name  is  a  name  for  scorning! 


194 


CUBA  LIBRE! 

(1898.) 

'~PHE  centuries  dark  with  woe  and  wrong, 
^       The  centuries  red  with  lust  and  crime, 
Wait  their  avenging;  wrack  and  thong, 

Dungeon  and  stake,  have  had  their  time. 
Here,  where  Pizarro's  footsteps  pressed 

In  blood  upon  a  conquered  soil! 
Here,  where  Columbus  reared  Spain's  crest 

Imperial — her  deeds  recoil! 


Not  as  we  hoped  the  fetters  fall — 

At  touch  of  Love's  electric  stroke 
Triumphant  over  hate — when  all 

The  manhood  in  our  veins  awoke. 
That  day  foregone,  we  reach  across 

The  angry  tide  of  War's  deep  flood, 
Whate'er  the  pain,  whate'er  the  loss, 

To  pledge  the  faith  of  Brotherhood! 


195 


Cuba  Libre! 

Tramp!  tramp!    It  is  the  solemn  tread, 

The  thrilling  tread  of  marching  men! 
The  listening  skies  are  overhead, 

And  Earth's  great  bosom  throbs  again. 
The  famished  forms  she  lulled  to  rest, 

While  fell  her  patriots*  blood  like  rain, 
These,  these  were  nourished  at  her  breast; 

She  calls  on  vengeance  for  her  slain! 


Oh,  dawn  of  Peace!   So  long  foretold! 

So  long  desired!  When  shall  it  rise? 
Alas!  in  smoke  of  battle  rolled, 

The  stars  are  blotted  from  our  skies. 
Now  God  defend  the  right!    He  brings 

The  Peace  that  only  can  endure; 
The  Peace  of  Peoples — not  of  kings! 

The  righteous  Peace  that  first  is  pure. 


196 


THE   MERRIMAC. 

Just  before  daylight  to-day  seven  gallant  sea- 
men took  the  collier  Merrimac  under  the  blazing 
Morro  batteries,  and  anchored  and  sunk  her. — 
Press  despatches,  June  3,  1898. 

"VTOT  in  the  tempest's  wrack 
*^"     Went  down  the  Merrimac; 
Not  when  the  battle's  roar 
Echoed  from  shore  to  shore, 
Facing  the  cannon's  breath 
Her  Heroes  challenged  Death! 

While  from  afar  they  gazed, 

Comrade  and  foe,  amazed — 

Silent  and  calm  and  sure, 

Led  by  no  fitful  lure, 

Swift' as  resistless  Fate 

She  swept  toward  Morro's  gate. 

Not  captured  prize  of  Fate — 
To  swell  a  victor's  state! 
Like  the  hound,  faithful  still, 
Though  the  loved  hand  may  kill, 
True  to  her  helmsman's  track     • 
Went  down  the  Merrimac. 


197 


The  Mcrrimac. 

Burn!  burn!   Ye  Stars  of  light, 

Upon  our  Flag  to-night! 

In  deeper  crimson  glow, 

Red  Stripes  of  dawn  below! 

Signal  the  risen  sun 

That  Valor's  deed  is  done! 


198 


THE   PHILIPPINES. 

A  LAS,  for  high  renown ! 
**•    For  valor  vainly  spent! 
The  faith  a  nation  vowed, 

Like  broken  reed  is  bent. 
No  arm  of  foeman  dealt 

A  worse  than  foeman's  blow — 
It  was  our  traitor- will 

That  laid  our  honor  low. 


Wipe  off — wipe  off  the  stain 

Upon  our  shield,  to-night — 
The  blood  of  those  we  pledged 

To  succor  in  their  fight: 
Their  fight,  unequal  waged, 

'Gainst  power  enthroned  long 
Did  we  the  wronger  doom, 

But  to  espouse  the  wrong? 


Oh,  God,  that  we  should  prove 
False  to  a  brother's  trust! 

And,  unassailed,  should  lay 
Our  forehead  in  the  dust! 

199 


That  we,  for  sordid  gain, 
Our  heritage  forego — 

The  glory  of  the  soul 

That  only  freemen  know! 


Is  this  our  high  degree? — 

The  foremost  heir  of  Time! 
Immortal  shall  we  prove 

In  baseness  and  in  crime? 
Wipe  off — wipe  off  the  stain ; 

(Once  burnished  was  the  shield!) 
While  yet  the  heavens  wait, 

Our  tardy  justice  yield. 


Rekindle,  while  we  may, 

Our  sacred  altar-fires! 
Have  we  the  past  forgot? 

Unworthy  of  our  sires! 
Snatch  from  the  grasp  of  Greed 

The  torch  that  Freedom  gave 
To  light  a  land  redeemed — 

It  gleams  not  on  a  slave! 


200 


BRIDE   OF  THE  AGES. 


WEARNED  the  world's  heart  to  her,  Bride  of 
1  the  Ages! 

Dream  of  the  poets  and  theme  of  the  sages; 
Won  by  her  loveliness,  awed  by  her  purity, 
Worshiped  men  proudly  in  faith  and  in  surety. 


Time!  dare  he  touch  her  with  insolent  moiling? 
Liberty's  chosen!  not  his  for  despoiling. 
Thronged  the  old  heroes  to  Valhalla's  portals 
To  gaze  from  afar  on  the  wonder  of  mortals. 


Bright  as  the  sun  in  his  opulent  splendor, 
Fair  as  the  moon  in  her  radiance  tender, 
Tyranny  trembled  before  her  appearing, 
As  if  an  army  with  banners  were  nearing. 


Roll  the  swift  years  past  a  century's  counting; 
Still  to  its  zenith  her  planet  is  mounting. 
Blare  of  the  trumpets  and  beat  of  the  drums 
Herald  the  car  of  her  triumph  that  comes. 


201 


Bride  of  The  Ages. 

Is  it  a  Juggernaut?    Lo,  as  it  rolls, 
Hear  ye  the  moaning  in  torment  of  souls? 
See  ye  white  faces  flash  out  at  the  wheel? 
What  shall  the  day  of  her  judging  reveal? 


Gaze  from  Valhalla,  O  heroes!  behold 
Liberty's  chosen  dishonored  for  gold! 
Rich  though  her  robing  and  splendid  her  state, 
'Tis  but  the  trappings  of  bondage  ye  hate. 


Spoil  of  the  crafty  and  tool  of  the  knave, 
What  from  such  baseness  her  glory  may  save? 
Was  it  for  this  that  your  swords  were  unsheathed ' 
Was  it  for  this  that  your  statues  were  wreathed  ? 


O  that  your  spirits  might  sweep  as  of  old, 
Kindling  hearts  coward  and  sordid  and  cold! 
Then  from  the  thraldom  of  sloth  and  of  dread 
Manhood  should  leap  to  avenge  her  instead. 


Greed  that  despoiled  her,  and  falsehood  that  sold, 
Power  that  bound  her  with  pythoness  fold, 
Hurled  to  fate's  oubliette  soundless  and  black, 
Leave  of  the  bale  of  their  presence  no  track. 


202 


Bride  of  The  Ages. 

Then,  O  beloved  and  beautiful  Land! 
Opens  the  day  of  her  destiny  grand. 


Bride  of  the  Ages!  Again  on  her  brow 
Gleams  the  pure  crown  of  her  virginal  vow; 
And  the  world's  heart,  with  a  mighty  rebound, 
Throbs  to  her  own  in  a  passion  profound. 


203 


THE  DARKEST   HOUR. 

HTHE  darkest  hour.     Yet  midnight  fleeteth, 
And  sullen  and  far  the  storm  retreateth — 

Hark!  hark!  that  dying  thunder-peal! 
And  torn  and  vanquished — an  army  driven — 
The  rent  cloud-squadrons  forsake  the  heaven, 

And  the  lustre  eternal  of  stars  reveal. 


The  darkest  hour.    Yet  day  is  breaking, 
In  field  and  forest  the  birds  are  waking — 

Hark  to  the  call  of  chanticleer! 
'Tis  a  world  of  sin  and  a  world  of  sorrow, 
But  here  is  the  rise  of  a  new  to-morrow; 

And  faith  can  never  companion  fear! 


The  darkest  hour.    Nay;  soul,  be  ready! 
Oh,  heart  be  true,  and  be  purpose  steady! 

Night  is  far  spent,  the  morning  nigh  ; 
Night  of  doubting  and  night  of  anguish; 
How,  for  its  passing,  our  spirits  languish — 

How  have  we  questioned  earth  and  sky! 


204 


The  Darkest  Hour. 

The  darkest  hour.    'Twas  hard  believing 
Under  its  shadow  the  sun  was  weaving 

Splendor  of  dawn  for  a  world  new  made; 
But  now,  oh,  now !  all  the  heavens  filling, 
Over  the  earth  in  its  wonder  thrilling, 

Flashes  LIGHT  through  the  depths  of  shade! 


The  darkest  hour.    Ah,  did  we  share  it, 
Comrade  mine?    Would  we  miss  to  bear  it? 

Faint  would  the  joy  of  its  passing  be. 
What  were  the  burden  its  night  should  render, 
To  the  reproach — oh,  keen !  oh,  tender ! — 

"Could  ye  not  watch  one  hour  with  me?" 


For  truth  is  strong  and  hath  her  broad  demesne ; 
Note  how  the  lifted  banner  marks  her  course: 

Now  in  the  parliament  of  England's  queen, 
Now  where  the  leagues  of  distant  waters  toss, 
In  those  new  lands  beneath  the  Southern  Cross ! 
— Joseph  Dana  Miller. 


"FREEDOM'S   AHEAD!" 

"She's  coming4  she's  coming!"  said  he; 
"Courage,  boys!  wait  and  see! 
Freedom's  ahead!" 

— Robert  Buchanan. 

HOUGH  our  eyes  may  not  behold  her, 

She  is  coming  on  her  way; 
For  her  couriers  have  foretold  her, 

Through  the  night  and  through  the  day. 
East  and  west  they  flash  the  warning, 
North  and  south  the  message  flies; 
Lo,  it  is  the  New  Year  morning, 
And  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies! 


Courage!  see  the  future  looming, 

With  its  issues  grand  and  vast; 
Let  the  dead,  the  dead  entombing, 

Idly  wail  the  vanished  past. 
Not  for  us  that  bootless  mourning 

While  the  waiting  moment  flies; 
Lo,  it  is  the  New  Year  morning, 

And  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies! 

209 


"Freedoms  Ahead!" 

To  the  hope  that  would  not  falter 

Thro'  the  heart-sick,  long  delay, — 
To  the  faith  that  would  not  palter 

With  the  guerdon  of  a  day, — 
All  the  tides  of  life,  returning, 

Now  to  higher  levels  rise ; 
Lo,  it  is  the  New  Year  morning,' 

And  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies! 


Yet  for  us,  from  heaven  descending, 

Doth  the  glorious  vision  gleam — 
Pearl  and  gold  and  sapphire  blending- 

Shall  we  hold  it  but  a  dream? 
Nay,  immortal  the  forewarning, 

And  the  soul  of  man  replies: 
Lo,  it  is  the  New  Year  morning, 

And  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies! 


Though  our  eyes  may  not  behold  her, 

She  is  coming  on  her  way; 
Long  the  ages  have  foretold  her — 

Haste!  prepare  her  place  to-day! 
Heed  no  longer  taunt  or  scorning; 

Higher  charge  upon  thee  lies! 
Lo,  it  is  the  New  Year  morning, 

And  the  dawn  is  in  the  skies! 

210 


"THE  LAND  OF  BY  AND  BY." 

T^AIR  the  valleys  stretched  before  me  in  that 

•*•  visioned  land  of  light; 

They  were  green  with  gleam  of  meadow,  and 
with  orchards  they  were  bright. 

On  terraced  hills  the  vineyards  stood  in  seemly 
row  on  row; 

And  the  grapes'  full  clusters  purpled  in  the  noon- 
tide's ruddy  glow. 


In  the  pastures  herds  were  feeding;  in  the  har- 
vest-fields the  corn 

Heaped  the  wains  as  'twere  the  largesse  from 
old  Plenty's  fabled  horn. 

Back  and  forth  on  traveled  highway  sped  the 
traffic  of  the  day; 

And  the  train's  shrill  whistle  sounded  like  a  chal- 
lenge to  delay. 


211 


"The  Land  of  By  and  By." 

Round   the  pleasant  dwellings  roses  shed   their 

sweetness  on  the  air, 
And  the  children's  happy  voices  sounded  blithely 

everywhere ; 
And  the  fair-faced  gentle  mother,  on  her  errands 

to  and  fro, 
Felt  the  joy  and  peace  of  loving  from  her  glad 

heart  overflow. 


Want's   grim  specter   lurked   no   longer  at   the 

household's  festal  board; 
Gone  was   hunger,   gone  was   malice,    and   the 

many-millioned  hoard. 
Men   with   men   as  brothers   meeting,   now   no 

longer  rivals  stood; 
Heirs  of  Nature's  common  bounty,  children  of 

one  Fatherhood. 


In  that  visioned  land  of  beauty,  rose  the  city's 

pillared  domes; 
Street  on  street  of  stately  warehouse — square  on 

square  of  spacious  homes. 
But  no  alleys,  foul  and  narrow,  and  no  tenements 

were  there — 
Shutting  out  God's  air  and  sunlight,  shutting  in 

the  heart's  despair. 


212 


"The  Lend  of  By  and  By" 

In  and  out  the  crescent  harbor  ships  were  pass- 
ing on  their  way, 

Freighted  with  the  wealth  of  Europe,  with  the 
treasures  of  Cathay: 

On  the  crowded  wharves  were  mingled  all  the 
Indies'  fragrant  store, 

With  the  hardy  skippers'  cargo  from  the  coasts 
of  Labrador. 


Man  no  more  in  impious  striving  thwarted 
Heaven's  eternal  law; 

Broad  and  fair  as  earth's  dominion,  now  his  heri- 
tage he  saw. 

Labor's  giant  forces  never  Greed's  strong  hand 
might  fetter  more; 

And  the  throbbing  pulse  of  Commerce  thrilled, 
electric,  every  shore. 


The  starry  banner  floated — giving  welcome   to 

the  world; 
But  above  its  silken  streaming  was  a  fairer  flag 

unfurled : 
Upon  its  virgin  whiteness  no  nation's  name  had 

place; 
LOVE  was  the  golden  ensign  that  shone  for  ALL 

THE   RACE. 


213 


"The  Land  of  By  and  By." 

In  fancy  oft  I  linger  in  that  visioned  land  of 

light, 
And  see  the  happy  people,  with  their  faces  calm 

and  bright; 
They  'mind  me  of  "the  shining  ones"  of  whom 

the  Pilgrim  told; 
And  I  think  the  Land  of  Beulah  is  this  which  I 

behold. 


214 


LIBERTY'S   DREAM. 

God's  will  shall  at  last  be  done  on  earth,  and 
His  disinherited  children,  restored  to  their  patri- 
mony, grow  up  into  a  race  living  joyously  in  a 
fair  and  fruitful  land,  in  which  the  hopes  and 
heroism  of  past  patriotism  shall  be  justified,  and 
Liberty's  Dream  of  the  ages  be  fulfilled. — William 
T.  Croasdale. 

TTAVE  we  not  seen  it — the  vision^ 
•*•  •*•     Glorious,  and  pure,  and  free! 
When  the  lord  of  the  land,  and  the  vassal, 

But  phantoms  unreal  shall  be. 
And  fair  as  the  Star  of  the  Morning — 

Glad  as  the  ransomed  soul! 
No  longer  a  crime  and  a  discord, 

Earth  on  her  orbit  shall  roll. 

For  have  we  not  seen  it — the  vision? 

The  vision  that  surely  shall  be! 
When  the  bounty  of  Earth  to  her  children 

The  humblest  shall  hold  in  fee. 
In  ways  where  the  thorn  had  wounded, 

The  rose  in  its  bloom  should  spring; 
And  through  air  where  the  curses  shuddered, 

Sweet  voices  of  childhood  ring. 


215 


Liberty's  Dream. 

Pledge  we  our  souls  to  the  Future — 

Glorious,  and  pure,  and  free! 
Make  us,  O  LIBERTY,  worthy 

Here  in  thy  vanguard  to  be. 
Our  eyes  have  awaked  to  the  dawning; 

Our  ears  the  reveille  have  heard ; 
Hand-clasp  and  heart-beat,  replying, 

Pulses  of  brotherhood  stirred. 


Vain  were  man's  puny  endeavor 

The  tides  of  the  ocean  to  bar! 
But  vainer,  the  tide  of  the  spirit 

That  sweepeth  from  star  unto  star! 
Full  swell  of  the  perfected  anthem — 

Music  divine  of  the  spheres! 
Oh,  hearken!   EARTH'S  psalm  is  fulfilling 

The  choral  of  Infinite  Years. 


216 


"BACK  TO  THE  LAND!" 

'"PO  the  land,  to  the  land!     From  its  dust  we 

have  sprung; 

And  still  to  its  verdure  our  footsteps  have  clung. 
Fair  childhood  hath  sported  in  innocence  gay 
Where  the  field  flowers  'broider  with  beauty  the 

way. 

From  garden  and  wildwood  the  lover  hath  sought 
Bright  blooms  meet  to  offer  the  queen  of  his 

thought. 

And  beautiful  age,  with  the  sweet  brow  of  calm, 
Feels  the  light  breeze  of  evening  breathe  blessing 

and  balm, 
While  she  roams  in  the  Past  with  the  lover  and 

child, 

And  smile  the  blue  skies  as  of  old  they  had  smiled. 
Shall  Hope's  blossoms  wither  and  drop  from  the 

hand, 
And  Memory  darken?    No!  back  to  the  land! 


217 


"Back  to  the  Land!" 

In  the  dew  of  the  morning  the  long  furrow  shone, 
While  blithe  in  its  wake  the  glad  sower  pressed  on, 
Rejoicing  in  faith  of  the  harvest  to  come 
With  plenty  and  peace  for  the  loved  of  his  home. 
But  the  toil  of  the  bondsman  no  largesse  returns, 
Earth's  seed-time  and  harvest  that  dull  tillage 

spurns. 

Shall  Monopoly's  tool  to  his  ''quarters"  slink  back, 
With  the  bloodhounds  of  slavery  still  on  his  track  ? 
Shall  the  vision  of  home  be  a  maddening  dream 
Till    the   brain    hath    forgotten    to   hope   or   to 

scheme  ? 
Shall   we  barter   our   birthright,    and   prodigals 

stand, 
With  husks  for  our  vintage?    No!  back  to  the 

land! 


Great  storehouse  of  Nature!  accursed  be  the  day 
That  locked  from  earth's  children  thy  treasures 

away, 

And  gave  to  the  grasp  of  the  robber  the  key 
That  was  meant  but  to  open  and  leave  thy  wealth 

free. 
But  the  hour  hath  sounded ;  the  great  clock  of 

Time 
Hath   marked   on   the   dial   the   death-stroke   of 

crime. 


218 


"Back  to  the  Land!" 

The  strife  of  the  ages  is  on ;  shall  we  dare 
To  falter  and  palter — our  trust  to  forswear? 
Shall  we  traffic  in  souls  while  our  gold  is  piled 

high? 

Or,  in  Poverty's  shadow,  shrink,  craven,  to  die? 
Our  heritage  beckons,  rings  forth  to  command, 
"Go  ye  up  and  possess  it!"     Back,  back  to  the 

land! 


219 


OUT  OF  THE   MISTS. 

^  1TE  said,  it  is  coming!  coming! 

*  V       Ah !  surely  the  day  will  arise ! 
Tho'  heavy  along  the  horizon 

The  fog  in  its  darkness  lies — 
The  dark,  foul  fog  of  the  marshland, 

That  shadows  the  morning  skies. 

The  cruel,  treacherous  marshland, 

Where  hearts  have  suffered  and  failed; 

Where  the  ardor  of  youth  was  broken, 
And  the  courage  of  manhood  quailed; 

And  against  the  poisonous  thicket 
The  strongest  have  not  prevailed. 

We  had  heard  of  the  sunny  meadows 
That  lie  on  the  farther  side; 

Of  the  hilltops,  that  beckon  grandly 
Where  beauty  and  strength  abide; 

Of  the  woodland's  changing  glory, 
And  the  torrents'  silvery  tide. 


220 


Out  of  the  Mists. 

We  knew  't  was  the  land  of  our  birthright, 
Tho'  scoffers  our  faith  profaned; 

And  weary  and  sad  with  longing 
The  eyes  that  towards  it  strained; 

And  over  the  perilous  pathway 

Blood-marked  were  the  footsteps  gained. 


The  air  was  heavy  with  vapors 
That  rose  from  a  shrouded  past; 

And  loud  with  tumultuous  murmurs 
Of  creeds  and  philosophies  clashed; 

And  the  sob  and  the  curse,  unheeded, 
Of  crime  and  misery  massed. 

We  knew,  if  we  could  but  follow, 

There  must  be  a  path  to  lead 
Through  the  horror,  and  din,  and  darkness, 

To  that  far  and  sunny  mead. 
Oh,  God !  was  Thy  world  forgotten, 

That  Thy  prophet  came  not  at  need? 

Alas,  for  the  valorous  spirits, 

Vanquished  by  fell  despair! 
For  the  hearts  that  were  pierced  by  pity, 

And  the  arms  that  beat  the  air! 
While  still  vain  voices  are  crying, 

"Lo!  here  is  the  way,  or  there." 


221 


Out  of  the  Mists. 

Then,  strong  as  archangel's  trumpet, 

A  sudden  clarion  rung; 
And  smote,  like  a  wind  of  Heaven, 

The  thick,  dark  mists  that  clung; 
And  in  souls  that  were  faint  to  dying 

A  deathless  hope  had  sprung. 


The  day  is  coming,  is  coming; 

(Nay,  surely  the  day  is  here!) 
For  a  dauntless  host  is  pressing 

With  never  a  halt  or  fear — 
Straight  on  thro'  morass  and  thicket, 

And  the  skies  beyond  are  clear. 


222 


THE  MESSAGE. 

"It  is  coming,  it  is  coming! 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  wind!" 

T  T  floats  across  the  prairies, 

With  the  balmy  breath  of  spring 
And  field  and  forest  hear  it, 

With  joyous  welcoming. 
From  the  pines  of  far  New  England, 

To  the  stately  redwood  tree, 
The  winds  have  brought  the  message: 
"The  land  shall  yet  be  free!" 


To  stifled  city  dwelling, 

Thro'  alleys  foul  and  dark, 
It  speeds  upon  its  mission, 

Like  arrow  to  the  mark. 
The  heavy  air  is  thrilling 

With  life  and  hope  to  be; 
The  winds  have  brought  the  message : 

"The  land  shall  yet  be  free!" 

223 


The  Message. 

In  Pennsylvania's  mountains, 

The  miner  hears  the  sound ; 
Where  deep  in  earth's  recesses, 

He  plods  his  darkling  round ; 
But  down  the  shaft  it  hurries, 

That  breath  of  liberty — 
The  winds  have  brought  the  message : 

"The  land  shall  yet  be  free!" 


On  California's  hillsides, 

The  wreathing  vines  are  bright 
With  clusters  as  of  Eschol, 

To  glad  the  toiler's  sight. 
And  earth  to  willing  labor 

Shall  full  reward  decree — 
The  winds  have  brought  the  message: 

"The  land  shall  yet  be  free!" 


Oh,  hear  ye  not  the  message?: 

A  rushing,  mighty  sound ; 
O'er  continent  and  ocean, 

It  speeds  the  world  around. 
Aye,  unto  far  Australia, 

To  the  islands  of  the  sea, 
The  winds  have  brought  the  message: 

"The  land  shall  yet  be  free!" 

224 


HEARTS  OF  HOPE. 

REPINE  who  may,  no  more,  we  say, 
The  skies  will  bleakly  lower; 
Thro'  darkest  day,  thro'  dreariest  way, 

Our  spirits  shall  not  cower. 
They  dimly  scan  the  heavenly  plan 

Who  faint  before  endeavor ; 
But  Hearts  of  Hope  find  fullest  scope 
Where  cowards  falter  ever. 


Forevermore,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  glorious  light  is  spreading; 
While  tyrants  quail,  and  flee  and  fail, 

Its  dazzling  luster  dreading; 
The  wrath  of  man  hath  mortal  span, 

Tho'  fell  be  its  endeavor; 
Up,  Hearts  of  Hope!  find  heavenly  scope, 

For  Love  shall  conquer  ever. 


225 


Hearts  of  Hope. 

Oh,  joy !  to  feel  the  ringing  steel 

On  Truth's  bright  shield  descending; 
While  at  her  feet,  the  trophies  meet 

Of  foes  in  homage  bending. 
Tho'  keen  the  fray,  and  long  delay 

The  crown  of  our  endeavor, 
Yet  Hearts  of  Hope  find  truest  scope 

In  noble  conflict  ever. 


On  earthly  skies  to  close  our  eyes, 

Were  grief  for  fear  to  borrow ; 
But  we  have  seen  the  heavenly  sheen 

That  brightens  all  our  sorrow. 
And  soul  to  soul  we  felt  the  whole 

Of  brotherhood's  endeavor; 
No  Heart  of  Hope  can  darkly  grope, 

However  paths  may  sever. 


What  tho'  the  sun  for  us  may  run 

His  brief  allotted  measure  ; 
Within  the  veil,  it  shall  not  fail, 

Our  steadfast  trust  and  treasure. 
To  God  be  praise !  our  earthly  days 

Had  share  in  Love's  endeavor; 
For  Hearts  of  Hope,  immortal  scope 

His  grace  shall  find  forever. 

226 


HEART  OF  SORROW. 

TTEART  of  Sorrow!  beating  faintly, 
•*•  "*•     All  thy  pulses  ebbing  low, — 
Be  thou  sinful,  be  thou  saintly — 

Here  is  comfort  for  thy  woe: 
Life  shall  yet  "add  joy  to  duty," 

God  hath  made  His  purpose  plain ; 
And,  renewed  in  Eden  beauty, 
Earth  shall  blossom  once  again. 

Heart  of  Sorrow!  faintly  thrilling, 

Full  and  vital  thou  shalt  throb ! 
Every  vein  with  rapture  filling, 

Hushed  for  aye  thy  quivering  sob. 
Not  for  fear  (thy  anger  quelling), 

Not  for  stifled  moaning  low, 
Patient  grief,  or  wild  rebelling, 

Do  thy  warm  pulsations  flow. 

Heart  of  Sorrow!  bruised  and  bleeding, 
Balm  for  thee  shall  yet  be  found. 

Oh,  thy  Father's  care  is  heeding, 
And  His  hand  shall  staunch  thy  wound. 


227 


Heart  of  Sorrow. 

Over  all  His  sunlight  shining, 
Blesseth  evil,  blesseth  good ; 

And  Earth's  children,  life  divining, 
Learn  at  last  of  Brotherhood. 


Heart  of  Sorrow !  faint  no  longer ; 

Love's  electric  pulse  is  thine. 
Every  moment,  duller — stronger, 

Beats  the  answering  joy  divine. 
Soon,  in  heavenly  exaltation, 

Man  shall  own  the  sacred  tie, 
And  the  anthem  of  creation — 

"Glory  be  to  God  on  high!" 


228 


THE  SUN  OF  CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 

T  T  PON  the  evil  and  the  good, 
^      The  praying  and  the  scorning, 
Still  shines  in  pledge  of  brotherhood, 
The  sun  of  Christmas  morning. 


It  tells  the  weary  heart  and  sad 
The  old,  immortal  story, 

And  gives  to  childhood's  spirit  glad 
A  sweeter,  tenderer  glory. 


Pale  anguish,  on  her  couch  of  pain, 
Smiles  soft — its  dawn  beholding; 

And  haggard  want  sees  once  again 
The  day  of  hope  unfolding. 


The  wild  revolt  of  human  wrong 
Is  stilled,  beneath  its  blessing; 

And  loving  hearts  beat  full  and  strong, 
For  comfort  and  redressing. 

229 


The  Sun  of  Christmas  Morning. 

Oh,  Babe  of  Hope !  we  dare  not  voice 
Our  sin  and  strife  before  Thee; 

And  if  we  grieve,  or  if  rejoice, 
In  silence  we  adore  Thee. 


"Peace,  peace  on  earth;  good  will  to  men!" 
From  out  the  heavenly  spaces, 

We  hear  the  angel's  song  again, 
With  veiled  and  stricken  faces. 


No  more  for  us  the  glory  gleams, 
That  simple  shepherds  ravished ; 

Yet  full  and  clear  the  morning  beams, 
And  God's  good  gifts  are  lavished. 


Ah,  selfish  hand  and  hardened  heart, 

The  Father's  will  defying, 
Have  robbed  His  children  of  their  part- 

Their  singing  turned  to  sighing. 


But  never  Love  hath  vainly  wrought 

Her  purposes  immortal, 
Tho'  still  through  night  of  travail  brought 

She  wins  the  heavenly  portal. 


230 


The  Sun  of  Christmas  Morning. 

"Peace,  peace  on  earth!"  it  yet  shall  be, 

Whatever  eyes  behold  it ; 
And  man  to  man,  as  brothers,  see 

Good  will  alone  enfold  it. 

Oh,  far  and  high,  the  skies  they  glow 
With  glorious  sign  of  warning: 

The  promise  and  the  hope  we  know — 
The  sun  of  Christmas  morning ! 


231 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


lOOm-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


PS2399.M63F6 


3  2106  00207  7706 


